


Illusion of Life

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Antagonism, Blood Drinking, Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, Femdom, Half-Vampires, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Oral Sex, Partial Mind Control, Pining, Rimming, Rough Sex, Switching, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Topping from the Bottom, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 60,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Dead men rising from their graves? Blood-drinkers who prey on the living by night? All just stories told by superstitious villagers.Right?When Theon made the promise to his mother, he never expected his quest to lead him to a strange land, where vampires might not be the deadliest monsters he has to contend with.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is, so far, a short one-shot inspired by a comment by reader lily about a Vampire AU. I might consider turning this one into a full-fledged fic, if I can come up with an overarching plot. Let me know if that's something you'd like to see.

Theon welcomed the penetration with a pleasured groan.

Teeth sank through flesh. Wet lips latched onto his neck, cold as death, but warming quickly as the blood flowed.

Theon fisted his hands in the sheets, bucked his hips. It was always so overwhelming, letting them feed. Painful, yes—the pain never quite went away—but also pleasurable. A prickling in the veins, a dull pressure in his belly, an ache in his back teeth. Calming and exciting all at once. It rippled through him like a wave, the crest of it always maddeningly out of grasp.

A strong hand, cold but rapidly growing warmer, held his head locked in place. To keep him from squirming. If Theon wanted to pull away, he very well could have. But what fool would _want_ to? Even as the blood left his body, he felt himself harden.

He stared up at the bed’s canopy, feeling helpless and reveling in it. The lips working against his neck, the pain of the teeth buried deep inside of him, the obscenely wet sounds of his lifeblood being pulled from his body…it was heady.

He didn’t know how long it went on, was never sure how long it went on, but eventually, before it became _truly_ too much, the figure above him shifted. The teeth were gone, and now something hard was pressing against his thigh. He looked up blearily, head reeling as it always did after a feeding.

“Are you alright?” Robb asked, and his eyes glowed faintly in the dimness of the room. He cupped Theon’s face, and Theon could feel his own blood pumping through Robb’s vein. And pumping elsewhere, too.

“Fine,” he answered, and lifted his knees to give Robb better access. _They_ always wanted to fuck after feeding, when the blood was new and warming and coursing through their bodies enough to give it the illusion of life. Theon didn’t mind. In fact, as much as he appreciated Robb’s concern, he was getting rather impatient that nothing was happening. “If your teeth aren’t in me, then your dick should be,” he muttered.

Robb complied, opening him with deliberate care and then lifting Theon’s legs over his shoulders so that he could slide in, slowly and purposefully. Theon let his head roll back on the pillow as he felt himself stretched. He was never quite sure if it was the post-feeding delirium or if Robb truly was _that_ good, but either way, it always satisfying to be filled. No mistake, Robb and the others saw to his needs during the off-feeding as well, but this, feeling Robb in him, hearing his own blood pumping Robb’s heart, knowing they were inside _each other_ …it was intimate in a way words could not express.

He let out a contented breath, and Robb began to move. It was lazy lovemaking—Theon was exhausted from being drained, and Robb dare not lose his control. Groggily, Theon admired the pinkish glow to Robb’s cheeks, the way it complemented his red curls. Wished, sometimes, that he’d known Robb in life, before he’d been turned. He wanted to see Robb in the daylight.

Robb gave one final thrust and then buried himself to the hilt as he came. Warmth flooded Theon’s insides, and he wrapped his legs around Robb’s neck to keep them locked together. He wanted to fuck like this all the time, not just when Robb _needed_ to feed. In the off-feeding, his corpse’s body wouldn’t respond to Theon’s ministrations. _They_ could use their mouths, of course, and their hands, and they could take a cock in whatever hole they happened to have under their clothes if you fancied fucking a cold, dry, dead body. But true lovemaking was only possible when the blood was new and coursing through their veins.

The body over him felt very much alive, if you ignored it wasn’t breathing. Robb’s heart was beating frantically with Theon’s blood inside it, and when he leaned in for a kiss, Theon could taste his own blood lingering on Robb’s tongue.

“You haven’t finished,” Robb noted as he pulled away.

“Then finish me.”

Robb’s flushed lips quirked into a grin. “In a moment. You need to eat and rest. I’ll fetch you something from the kitchens.”

He tried to get up, but Theon clung tighter with his legs. He had no real strength when compared to a vampire, but Robb stayed anchored in place just the same. “I have another month to eat and rest. I want to fuck while you’re still warm.”

“You’re tired,” Robb noted.

Terribly. The post-euphoria of the feeding left him feeling weak, aching, his limbs trembling. But they had only hours, perhaps a day or two if they were lucky, before the blood began to thicken and cool. Before Robb’s skin became pale and rigid to the touch. Before the beating of his heart once again ceased.

Robb read this all on his face, as he always did. He nodded, and Theon loosened his legs for Robb to slide down his body. He groaned when a wet warmth engulfed his aching hardness, closing tightly around him as Robb took him all the way into his throat. He felt more than heard the keening noise in the back of his own throat. He was already driven past the point of oversensitivity, and with the way Robb worked his lips, always so skilled no matter what they were sucking, it wouldn’t take long at all.

“Gods, I—I’m—” Theon bucked his hips, and Robb took him impossibly deeper. “I’m going to—”

Robb grabbed hold of his thighs and gripped tight as Theon spurted down his throat. He was in a swallowing mood today. Not that a little seed would hurt him, but as a rule, his body couldn’t digest anything beyond blood, and really only human blood at that. He took it all, everything Theon had to offer, and only unlatched when Theon collapsed bonelessly into the mattress, panting heavily. Then he came to lie beside him, his unbreathing chest in harsh contrast with Theon’s.

“Now you will eat?” he prodded. “You need to replenish your blood.”

“I’ll have enough by the time you need to feed next.”

Robb frowned. “You know that’s not what worries me.”

“How long have I been your blood doll, Robb?”

Robb considered, as if he’d truly lost count, but simply answered, “And all these years, I have never stopped worrying for you.”

“I’m strong. I can handle it.”

“Yes, I know.” Robb gently took hold of his hand and pulled it to his mouth, where he landed a gentle kiss against the pulse in his wrist. “I know because I am strongest when your blood is inside me. Just remember to keep enough for yourself.”


	2. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence, everyone. I've been busy with work and finishing an original project. I've got more work coming soon, but in the meantime, I'm going to start posting Part I, which isn't that long but I'm eager to get this started.

Several Years Earlier

A cold gust followed Theon through the door. He dusted the snow from his cloak and looked up to find half a dozen faces watching him with the suspicion a newcomer always brought. Theon knew the feeling well. He’d grown up in a small seaside town himself, where strangers were rare and often brought ill news.

He ignored them and stamped out the snow from his boots before heading to the bar. He needed a stiff drink before he could thaw himself out by the nice fire in the hearth. “You have a room for the night?” he asked the man tending the bar.

The man met his gaze with a fierce intensity, searching something in his face. Whatever he was looking for, he either found it, or didn’t, and nodded. “Have a seat. I’ll have my daughter make up the bed.” He turned and spat into a spittoon behind the counter. “And have her make sure there are no spider webs. Been a while since we’ve had boarders. Most folks just pass through.”

“I’ll have a drink while I’m waiting.” Theon set a generous handful of coins on the counter. “For the room and drink. And a little extra, if you can provide some information.”

The bartender eyed the money hopefully. “What would you like to know, stranger?”

“I’m looking for someone. A man named Patrek Mallister. Do you know him, by any chance?”

The man was silent, which meant he did know but was contemplating how much he should say. In the end, the tell was in how his eyes kept returning to the money. “I know _of_ him, but I wouldn’t advise you to go looking for him.”

“We have unfinished business, he and I.”

The man leaned an elbow on the counter. “It’s none of _my_ business, but if you go looking to settle up with Mallister, you might not come back.”

Theon brushed back his jacket to place a hand on his hip, deliberately close to the holster on his belt. “You wouldn’t be the first person to underestimate me.”

The bartender gave him an unimpressed look and turned to fill a mug from a keg under the bar. “It’s not Mallister you need to worry about. It’s who he serves.”

“Who does he serve?”

The man stood, a dour look on his face as he slid the froth-less ale to Theon. Theon leaned in to take it, and the man in turn leaned in and grabbed Theon’s sleeve. “The Starks,” he hissed in a low voice.

“The Starks? Who’re they?”

The man put a thick finger to his lips. “Speak of the devil and he will appear.”

It appeared townspeople had their own superstitions no matter where you went.

“Your pistol will do no good against them,” he continued. “They walk and talk like you or me, but they’re _not_ like you or me. You and me, we go to our graves and stay there. But these…” He shook his head. “They’re not natural.”

Despite the tavern driving most of the chill away, Theon shuddered. He’d heard stories of unnatural creatures. Wherever they lived, townspeople spoke of them. They spoke of them in Theon’s town as well, of unnatural things that lived in the water, and in hushed whispers suggested the Greyjoy line had a touch of such beings in their lineage.

“Whatever business you have with Mallister,” the bartender said, finally letting go of Theon’s sleeve, “it might be best to leave it unfinished, hmm?”

“Sorry,” Theon said with a grin. “I made a promise to someone.” He turned, mug in one hand, patting the coins with his other. “But I appreciate the information.” It might not get him any closer to Mallister, but it had given him new information. Whoever Mallister worked for, the townsfolk were frightened of them. Perhaps they were unnatural monsters, or perhaps, like the Greyjoys, they simply cultivated the notion. Either way, they would need to be considered.

He could still feel eyes on him as he made his way to the fire, boots clomping on uneven wood floor. There was a chair in front of the fireplace, and he collapsed into. He contemplated his drink a moment, sloshed it around in the mug, before taking a long pull. It was bitter and flat on his tongue, but it sang with heat in his belly.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

He nearly choked on his drink, instead spitting it out and sputtering. He wiped the spittle from his face and turned to see a figure watching him just out of reach of the fire’s light. Had he been there this entire time? It looked rather like he’d materialized out of the shadows.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Did your mother tell you it’s rude to just pop up out of nowhere? You could’ve stopped my heart.” That’s what his mother always used to say, at least.

The stranger cocked his head but otherwise didn’t comment. “You’re looking for Patrek Mallister.”

“Didn’t your mother also tell you it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?” Theon looked over his shoulder to the bar. “And how could you have possibly heard us from all the way over here?”

“My hearing is good,” the stranger said flatly. He stepped out into the light, dressed in black from his boots to his hat, a broad-brimmed thing that obscured his eyes. The rest of him was cloaked in a black coat. “Are you serious about finding Mallister?”

“He a friend of yours?”

The man grimaced. “Hardly. Any man who keeps the company of such monsters is disgusting.”

“The Starks?” Theon asked. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t shush him. “What are they, exactly?”

The man stepped closer. His voice was hushed.

“The living dead. Corpses crawled from their graves to drink the blood of the living. It’s what maintains their unnatural existence.”

“You’re talking about…?”

“Shhh,” the man purred, his breath tickling warmly against Theon’s ear. “Not too loudly. Mortal ears aren’t the only ones listening in.”

A shudder ran up Theon’s spine, though not an entirely unpleasant one. This stranger’s voice…it somehow made vampires and mers and werewolves real, and had them lurking in the shadows beyond the safety of the fireplace.

In that instant, Theon had no doubts.

“You’re frightened,” the stranger noted. “You should be. They could kill you with the same effort it takes to wring a chicken’s neck. Have you ever wrung a chicken’s neck? The bones snap quite easily. They could snap your neck just as easily, and drain your blood with no more thought than you give to your ale.” He nodded to the mug; Theon hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping it. “We are their food, their drink, and their playthings, nothing more. After all, what value does life hold to that which is dead?”

“What is dead may never die,” Theon murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Theon shook his head. He felt like he’d just come out of a trance. “Be that as it may, I’ve come too far for Patrek Mallister and I don’t intend to turn back.” He took another drink, watching the stranger over the lip of the mug, challengingly.

“You still plan on seeking Mallister out? You won’t heed my warnings?”

“I have no interest in these Starks. I only want Mallister.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Theon scoffed. He’d been called much worse.

“But perhaps we can help each other. One fool to another.” He hitched back his coat to reveal a sharpened wooden stake strapped to the inside. “I _am_ interested in the Starks. Their shadow has darkened these lands for generations, and I have made it my life’s work to put every last one of them back into the frozen ground they crawled out of.”

“You have a vested interest, I take it?”

The man lifted his head, and Theon caught a glimpse of intense eyes underneath dark bangs. “You could say it’s personal.”

Theon made a noncommittal noise. “Then you’ll help me find Mallister?”

“If you agree to help me.”

“How?”

“By luring them out.”

Theon didn’t like the sound of that, and it surely showed on his face.

“They won’t come out in the open on _my_ account,” the man continued, either unaware of Theon’s discomfort or ignoring it. “ _My_ blood is poison to them. I’ll need something that will…appeal to them.”

“But you said—”

“You won’t be harmed, of course. I’ll make certain of it.”

Theon studied the man’s face beneath the brim of his hat, tried to get a hold on the intention behind that handsome face and intense gaze. “I don’t trust you,” he admitted.

The stranger didn’t balk at Theon’s bluntness. “That’s wise of you,” he said. “But unfortunately, if you intend to find Mallister, you’ll run afoul of the Starks, and when you do, you’ll wish you had me with you.”

Theon considered a moment. He didn’t like the idea of being used as bait. But at the very least, it seemed Patrek Mallister was a difficult man to reach. So he was left with few choices: either trust this stranger or continue to fumble his way blindly through a strange land he didn’t understand. Either could very well lead him to his death. The easiest option would be to return home empty-handed and break his promise to his mother, but he would _rather_ die than that.

“Alright,” he said and held out his hand for them to shake on it.

The man squeezed Theon’s hand hard enough to make him wince. “I’ll come for you in the morning.” He adjusted his hat and turned to go. “The storm should be gone by then, and we have some travelling ahead of us.”

“Your name,” Theon called after him. “I didn’t catch it.”

The stranger stopped and looked back. “Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, feel free to let me know what you'd like to see from this story--characters, ships, plot developments, etc. Leave a comment or, alternatively, find my on tumblr at megaunhappybunny. Comments and concrit always welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm had died by sunup, just as Snow had predicted.

“Sleep well?” he asked as he strapped Theon’s meager luggage to the horse.

“Not overly,” Theon admitted. He was used to a rough night’s sleep, but the way the wind had howled outside had been something else. Not to mention he awoke with the smell of must in his nose and aching bones from a lumpy mattress. He was not looking forward to a day in the saddle. “I have money to hire a carriage, you know.”

Snow snorted and, without looking up from his work, said, “This will be better, trust me. Where we’re going, you might be able to navigate a carriage, but it would slow you down…considerably.”

Theon looked at the horses, both hardy beasts with copious scars across their flanks. “Where are we going?”

“Winterfell,” Snow answered. “Centuries ago, it was a hub of commerce and trade in these isolated parts. But then the hands of death took hold of it, and the people moved out from beneath its shadow. What remains is a necropolis, best forgotten by the outside world.” He straightened and came around the side of the horse.

He was dressed as he’d been last night, in a black coat and hat, making him look like an undertaker, appropriate for all his talk of necropolises. He reached into his coat now and handed Theon a wooden stake from within its depths.

Theon almost laughed. “I have a pistol.”

“Won’t do you any good against vampires.” There, the word they had been dancing around last night. In the daylight, it again felt like a fairy tale to frighten children. “If your bullets are silver, it _might_ slow them down. Silver will burn, but not kill.”

“ _Can_ they be killed?” Theon asked.

_What is dead may never die._

Snow tilted his head up and squinted as sunlight hit his eyes. “Daylight. Beheading.” He tossed the stake. Theon caught it and grasped it tight, feeling the splintery grain against his palms. “A stake through their unbeating heart.”

“That must take some strength…to drive a bit of wood through such a creature’s chest.”

Snow gave him a pointed look from beneath the brim of his hat. “It does.”

Theon turned the stake over in his hands again before holstering it next to the pistol on the inside of his coat, close to his breast. He searched his mind for the stories he may have heard. “Can they take the form of beasts?”

Snow paused as if to consider. “The older ones gain certain abilities as they age. I’ve never heard of one able to turn into a beast, but it’s not impossible one of them has managed to live long enough to unlock that type of sorcery.” He adjusted his hat. “The older ones are more dangerous, but even a fledgling can tear your throat out without effort.”

“A fledgling?”

“Newly turned.”

“I see,” Theon said. “And how does—?”

“They wouldn’t turn you,” Snow said, and gave him a deliberate up-and-down look. “They’d take every last bit of your lifeblood and leave you dead. The _permanent_ sort of dead, that is.” He handed a set of reins to him. “Daylight’s up. We can talk while we ride.”

Theon had more questions—not least of which was how Snow could be so sure they wouldn’t turn him, and if he should feel relieved or offended at the notion—but there would be plenty of time on the way to…wherever Snow was leading them. With a snort, he put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up on his horse.

They set off with Snow whistling a jaunty tune. Despite last night’s howling winds, the snow was not too deep and the horses seemed to have no trouble. Which was good, because not too far out of town, the cobbles gave way to a rutted path that led into a forest of dense evergreens. And then even the ruts disappeared and the trail became so narrow that it was impossible to ride two abreast. Theon often had to smack snow-laden branches away to keep sight of his guide up ahead.

“Know these parts well, do you?” he hollered up ahead. His voice rang off the trees, and he realized just how eerily silent the forest was.

Snow did not admonish him to keep his voice down, however. “Like my own face in the mirror. Born and raised in these parts.”

“Mmm,” Theon agreed, noncommittally. “And how long have you been hunting monsters?”

Up ahead, Snow turned on his horse to grant Theon with a knowing grin, full of mischief and not a little bit of malice. “Longer than you’d suspect.”

Again Theon felt his skin prickle.

“The last time I saw Mallister,” he said, to brush off the unease, “it was daytime.”

Snow had turned back to face the path, seemingly more focused on that than on Theon’s statement. “And?”

“He couldn’t be a vampire.”

“Mallister’s no vampire,” Snow said. “Any bullet in your pistol will put him down, assuming you aim correctly, of course.”

“Then why does he serve them? Why would any human?”

Snow shrugged. “Entrancement, madness, lust. Who can say?”

“Lust?”

“Plenty of people willing to fuck a corpse.”

Theon must have made some noise of revulsion, because Snow chuckled.

“Plenty of sick fucks in the world. Can you imagine sticking your dick into some rotting hole?”

“I’d rather not think of it,” Theon said, picturing the bodies he’d seen of fishermen drowned at sea. Pale and bloated, stinking of death and low tide.

“They take human women sometimes,” Snow continued conversationally, “willing or not, and beget more monsters. Dhampirs, the villagers call them, or sometimes just abominations.”

Theon suddenly didn’t want to know any more about vampires and was glad when Snow didn’t offer any more knowledge. Instead he went back to his whistling, filling the void of birdsong in the forest. Eventually a horse nickered, but mostly it was the whistling and the steady clomp of hooves through untrodden snow that filled the space.

As much as Theon hated to admit it, especially as the day wore on and his legs began to ache from sitting the saddle with few breaks in between, riding by horseback was easier. The trail through the forest was winding, but turned downright treacherous when they reached a steep ravine and were forced to hug the path cut into the side of the rock. Theon kept his eyes on Snow ahead of him and not on the near-vertical drop-off to his left.

They had been traveling for some time now, and the sky was already beginning to darken when Snow brought his horse to a sudden stop, hand up to bid Theon do the same, and then pointed towards the opposite cliff face. Against the setting sun, the dark shape of a castle loomed high on the cliff, enormous, misshapen with age. More of a ruin, really. The tallest tower looked as though it would slough off into the ravine at any moment.

“That’s where we’ll find them.”

A familiar shudder ran through Theon’s body. Perhaps it was the castle’s eerie presence, or perhaps it was merely because darkness was setting in and everything became realer in the dark. He swallowed as he stared up at that edifice. Behind those walls, did the dead truly walk? Were they stirring, even now?

He looked to Snow in alarm. “Do they know we’re here?”

Snow’s dark-clad form was becoming increasingly more difficult to make out in the waning light. “If they do, we’ll find out soon enough.” He pushed his horse forward again.


	4. Chapter 4

They made camp in a cave. No fire for warmth or food. Just a cold, hard ground and the blankets from their packs. “I’ll take first watch,” Snow proclaimed.

Theon slept fitfully, and the dreams that came to him were like fevered visions. Hands reached out for him from the darkness, holding him down. There was a weight on his chest, pushing him to the ground, pinning him. “You’re mine,” a silky voice whispered. His heart pounded like an anvil, and he could feel his blood thrumming in every tiny vein.

And yet he wasn’t frightened. Not like when he awoke from nightmares of his uncle’s evil eye. He wanted more. He wanted the figure to dominate him, to open him up and take what it wanted from his body. “Yours,” he murmured back. “Make me yours. Please.” And that was the terrifying part. That he would welcome this submission, beg for it even, instead of fighting back against it with the revulsion it deserved.

He floated back to wakefulness to the first rays of sunlight illuminating Snow’s silhouette against the mouth of the cave. Theon blinked the sleep from his eyes. He felt weary and sore, not rested in the slightest. He groaned as he sat up. “You didn’t wake me for my watch.”

Snow turned to him. “I thought it would be better to let you rest. You were sleeping very soundly.” A lecherous sort of grin crossed his face. “You may want to consider a change of clothes.”

And that was when Theon realized the sticky wetness in his pants. Shit! He’d spent himself in his sleep like he was twelve again. His skin flushed warmly, doubly so when he realized Snow _knew_. How could the man tell? Had he been…god, had he been crying out in his sleep?

“If _I_ can smell it, _they_ can smell it,” Snow said by way of explanation.

Theon fumbled to strip his dirty, sweat-soaked clothing from his body.

“It will be best to leave your soiled clothes behind at this point,” Snow said, back turned to him, but only after a pointed look. “We can collect them on the way back, if you care about them so much, but the only thing more alluring to them than human arousal is human blood from a fresh wound.”

Theon bundled up the spent garments and tossed them to the back of the cave in disgust. He changed quickly and came to join Snow at the mouth of the cave with the horses. Snow handed him his horse’s reins with a knowing smirk. Theon’s face burned and he could hardly meet the man’s gaze. He remembered his dreams through a hazy filter, but the dangerous and erotic quality of it had completely dissipated in the light of day. 

They set out again, this time following a series of switchbacks down into the ravine and up the other side. The snow was sparser up here, clinging in small clumps to the sides of the crude path. Every step upwards brought the castle looming larger over them. There was no hint of movement whatsoever.

“There will be nothing walking around up there that you can’t put down with your pistol,” Snow called back, not bothering to keep his voice low. “If any of the dead _are_ awake, they won’t dare come into the sunlight. We’ll have the best chances of finding your man now.”

Theon felt for the pistol at his side, fingers also brushing the shape of the stake next to it.

They crested the lip of the ravine, where the ominous forest from yesterday continued. Snow motioned to dismount, and they tied their horses’ reins to a low-hanging branch. “Better to go by foot from here,” Snow said.

There were no paths here, not even deer trails, which was unsettling to Theon the same way the absence of birdsong was. Their boots were the first to break the undisturbed snow. Theon trudged along at Snow’s side, occasionally glancing over at his traveling companion. The man’s profile was sharp under his hat, and his eyes scanned the forest with purpose, almost like a predator on the lookout.

Theon was suddenly curious. “How does one become a vampire hunter?”

Snow’s predator eyes shot to him questioningly.

“It just seems an odd trade,” Theon said with a shrug. “Is there an apprenticeship involved? How long do you train for?”

Snow grinned. His lips split, revealing a hint of sharpened tooth. “It’s more of a trial-and-error matter, only error will leave you dead.” His smile faded as his eye returned forward. “In this line of…work, you can’t afford to make errors. The man who, shall we say, trained me taught me that by getting himself killed at the hands of the Starks.”

Ah, so it _was_ personal.

“I’ve never made a mistake,” Snow continued. “You can tell because I’m still alive.”

They walked on, Snow with a surefootedness bordering on single-mindedness. He seemed to have a destination in mind, though how he could tell one tree from the other remained a mystery. The unease Theon had felt upon their first meeting—which had truly never gone away, now that he thought of it—returned in full force and sent prickles running along the hairs on his body. He was vividly aware that they were alone out here, far from civilization and far from help.

 _If he wanted to hurt you_ , Theon reminded himself, _he had ample opportunity to do it already._

Somehow the thought did not comfort him as much as it should.

It wasn’t easy going, either, but Snow didn’t seem to find the snow and fallen logs and general trail-less-ness any sort of hindrance. There was an undeniable gracefulness to his movements, an effortlessness, and Theon could almost imagine the muscle and sinew moving fluidly under that dark coat. Merely an admiration of the man’s physical prowess, of course, nothing more.

He was perhaps too caught up in his admiration, so he was taken by surprise when Snow finally came to a stop. Theon pulled up short and looked around, though this patch of forest looked the same as the rest. Only their footprints behind them gave him any indication of direction at all. But Snow crept forward and parted a snow-laden bush to reveal a stone structure beyond.

Not a building, at least not anymore. More like a forgotten outpost, dead vines wrapped around every lonely stone as the forest began to swallow it back up.

Snow stepped forward, quirking his head for Theon to follow him, but Theon held back. There was something very…wrong about this place. He could tell, even from here, that it wasn’t the castle proper. But even more than the castle, the area radiated…wrongness. He couldn’t explain it beyond the tingling on the back of his neck, the twisting of his gut. Wrong. It was wrong. A monument to the dead, and living things shouldn’t be treading here.

A necropolis, as Snow had called it.

But Snow was still motioning for him to come. Theon swallowed and took in a deep breath. He couldn’t chicken out now, simply on a feeling. He’d come too far, and it was too late now. It had been too late when he’d set out with Snow. Perhaps it had been too late when he’d set out from Pyke.

He stepped forward.

It truly was a monument of sorts. Even worn down with age and covered over in vines, there were still pillars jutting upwards—most broken off now, crumbled—and a low, flat structure like a table. Theon drew near it, brushing off the snow to reveal etchings beneath. They had once been elaborate but where now too worn down to make out. On the other side of the table stood a peculiar set of pillars on a raised dais. A shallow trough dropped over the side of the dais and ran to the table. A fountain, perhaps, during better times?

“What is this place?”

“The villagers who used to live in this area built it.” Snow ran a loving hand over one of the half-crumbled pillars. “Long ago. To appease the creatures in the castle, so they wouldn’t have to worry about their families in the dead of night.”

“Did it work?”

Snow smiled tightly, a sort of rueful but mischievous smile. “Yes.”

Theon looked around. “Then why…?”

“Did they abandon it? Flee from their homes?” Snow finished for him. “Because the cost was too great. Perhaps they might not have to worry about their family _this_ time, but what about the next? It could just as easily be them or their loved ones sent to appease the dead next.”

A shiver ran up Theon’s spine. He took in the scene again, the pillars, the raised dais, the trough, the table…no, not a table. An altar. “They sacrificed people here?”

“Quick to catch on, aren’t you?” Snow said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Theon turned, more questions on his lips, only to be met with something clamping tightly over his throat, choking off those questions. He found himself staring into Snow’s colorless eyes. The man gave him a grin, and the tightness about Theon’s throat grew even tighter. Theon clawed at it, surprised to find it was Snow’s hand and not some…instrument for how solid and unmoving it was. Snow grinned wider in response.

“Wha—?” The noise died in Theon’s throat.

“Shhh,” Snow answered.

On instinct, Theon lashed out at the man himself, landing a solid punch against Snow’s temple. But it did nothing. Snow didn’t even flinch. Theon felt like a child again, clawing and kicking at Maron and Rodrik to let him go, feeling small and weak and powerless against their overwhelming strength.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.” Snow squeezed ever-so-tighter and bent him back, where his hips hit the altar. Theon tried to draw in breath, but his vision was already fading into darkness as Snow’s face loomed in over him. “You’re no use to me dead.”


	5. Chapter 5

The world faded back in—first the pounding in his head and then the aching of his throat. His limbs felt absurdly heavy, and when he tried to move them, he met with a scratchy resistance. Vision was the last thing to return. His head was also absurdly heavy, and it took some effort to lift it. His gaze slowly rose from the stone under his feet to the pillars rising up on either side of him to his wrists, bound over his head by corded rope to those same pillars.

His head was still swimming, but everything came rushing back.

He’d been stripped to his waist, left in the cold strung up between the pillars. Bare and vulnerable. Like a worm on a hook. He pulled on the ropes, but they were, predictably, tight and strong. Breathing coming ragged gasps, he looked around.

“You weren’t out too long.”

His head whipped around, but he couldn’t quite look over his shoulder enough to see the owner of that voice, though he knew it was Snow. “What…what do you think you’re doing?” Theon tried to summon his most commanding, indignant voice. He knew he hadn’t, even before Snow chuckled darkly.

“You agreed to help me, didn’t you?”

“Not…” Theon pulled at the ropes again. Still no give. “Not like this.”

“I knew you’d get cold feet.”

Theon’s spine bristled as he felt a presence, Snow’s, come up behind him.

“You’re scared.” Warm breath ghosted his ear. “Good. They can smell fear almost as well as arousal.” A cold finger ran down his back, to the waistline of his pants.

Theon jerked away. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re going to stop me?” The hand continued downwards, pausing to cup his ass through his trousers before sliding lower, down his leg. Theon yelped when Snow grabbed hold of his ankle and pulled; he surely would have been knocked off his feet if his tried wrists weren’t holding him in place. Snow pulled the ankle flush against the pillar and began securing it there with more rope.

Theon wasn’t in any position to fight, but he tried anyway. Snow just snorted at his pathetic attempt at a kick and grabbed his other ankle to tie it to the other pillar. “There, don’t you make a pretty picture?” Snow rose to his feet and came around to admire his work from the front. “Now, I just need to put the finishing touches on.” He reached inside his coat.

Theon didn’t think it was possible to feel more vulnerable—half-naked and tied spread-eagle as he was—until he saw the knife in Snow’s hand. He tried to pull back, though obviously the bindings wouldn’t allow it. “What are you doing?” He was beyond trying to intimidate or demand answers. He was completely at the mercy of his madman. Had been from the beginning, though he was only realizing it now. He should have listened to his gut feeling. He should have never accepted Snow’s offer, agreed to go anywhere with him. He should have—

He cried out, more in shock than pain, as Snow drew his blade along his chest. A shallow cut that took several seconds to ooze blood—about the amount of time it took Theon to process what had just happened.

Snow leaned in close, one hand still clutching the knife, the other bracing against Theon’s chest, staring at the bright red blood bubbling from the cut. His nostrils flared. “I knew you had potent blood. I could smell it on you when you walked into that tavern.”

Theon stared at him in horror. “You…you’re _one_ of them?”

A sharp blow caught him off guard. His head snapped back, and his body sagged against the ropes.

“Do I _look_ like a dead man to you?” Snow growled. He gripped the knife tighter and cut a long line down the length of Theon’s outstretched arm. A trail of blood dribbled in its wake. “Your blood smells like sweet wine to me. Putrid. But I’m sure _they’ll_ love it.” He grabbed Theon’s chin with his free hand and forced his head up. “They’ll come like leeches for any drop of blood they sense.” He put the blade against Theon’s throat.

Theon’s breath caught.

“Don’t worry, I already told you I’m not going to kill you.” Snow pressed the blade in just enough that Theon felt the warmth of blood, barely a trickle. “They can’t drink blood from a dead body. Their prey needs to be alive when they feed.” He pulled the blade slowly across Theon’s flesh.

Theon didn’t dare move. He just closed his eyes and waited for Snow to finish. When he finally felt the blade pull away, he let out a gasp. “You promised to help me track down Mallister.”

“And I will, if all goes well.” Snow wiped the knife on Theon’s pant leg and returned it to the folds of his coat. “ _If_ all goes well, you won’t die tonight. I’ll be lying in wait for when _they_ arrive. And when they do…” He didn’t finish his sentence, just grinned.

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

Snow shrugged. “I told you there would be risks.” He pointed up to the tree line, where the shadows were growing long as the sun sank behind them. “It’s dusk. They’ll be restless in their tombs right about now. The hungry ones are always the most dangerous _and_ the easiest to kill. They get distracted, single-minded. I need to get ready for them.” He then patted Theon’s cheek. “You don’t need to do anything but bleed.”

And then, adjusting his hat once more, he walked out of Theon’s line of sight.

Theon hung there, limp. His head was still reeling, both from being choked and from Snow’s sudden turnaround. He _should_ have seen it coming, dammit. And now night was falling rapidly, and here he was, laid out like a fresh cut of meat for those…

He swallowed. His throat hurt.

The forest was as unnaturally silent as it had always been, and darkness was stealing details from the world around him. Snow might as well have blindfolded him for all he could see—and all the good it would do him. The chill was so cold his exposed skin burned. The knife cuts stung, but he was more aware of the blood seeping down his body, thick and warm. And his limbs, quickly losing sensation from being tied tight.

Every nerve was on fire, every muscle taut. Waiting.

The last bit of light disappeared, and a cold wind picked up, rustling the trees. Theon strained his ears for the possible sound of footsteps in the snow.

But it came without any sound at all. The sudden violent shudder that ran down his spine and made him want to shrug out of his skin. That same inexplicable sensation of someone watching you from across a room. Even if Theon couldn’t see it, he could _feel_ the presence looming beyond his perception.

The only sound was his hurried breath as he yanked on his bonds in animal-like panic. The presence drew closer. It wasn’t human. It wanted him. His animal brain knew all of this on a level deeper than even instinct. Fight or flight took hold. Except there was no way to fight. Nowhere to flee.

“What are you doing here?”

He gasped at the voice, startlingly near. Low, masculine. He couldn’t make out anything in the dark, though.

A hand—unnervingly cold, even against the winter air—caressed his face. “Poor thing.”

Theon jerked.

“Shhh,” the voice hushed, the sound low and soothing.

Theon found himself relaxing. The hand was so cold, but the voice was so warm, so comforting. He thought he could perhaps make out the shape of a face in the darkness. The hand brushed his throat, the shallow cut there, but Theon didn’t draw away this time. He had no desire to. Fear was suddenly foreign to him.

“You didn’t tie yourself here,” the voice continued. “Who did this to you?”

Theon wanted very much to answer. It was the only thing he wanted. “Sn—”

But before he could get the answer out, from his left came an enraged a roar. A veritable war cry. The sense of comfort dissipated like steam, and fear raced back in as the figure drew back with a start.

The clashing of two bodies reverberated through the very stones under his feet. Theon was more than familiar with the sounds of men fighting—drunken bar fights, fists on flesh, fathers and uncles and older brothers—but the furious scrambling in the dark seemed more like a fight between two animals, the figures thrashing around with the unrestrained fury of beasts. They weren’t beasts, though, but quite obviously men, even if it was difficult to tell one from the other. One was undoubtedly Snow, waiting for an ambush as he’d promised, and the other the man with the dark voice.

Theon could only guess who had the upper hand.

It was interminable, the sounds of their blows, feet skidding in the snow, _growling_. Who would win? Who did Theon _want_ to win? Snow would be the better option. Better the devil you know and all that. And yet…

A pained howl split the air. The sounds of fighting came to an abrupt halt. Theon held his breath. Silence fell again, save for the beating of his heart and the ragged panting in the dark. Only one of them was breathing.

Overhead, the moon appeared from behind the clouds, shining a pale light on the two figures, now standing a sizable distance apart. Staring each other down. Theon still could not tell them apart, though he heard Snow’s voice. “Next time…I _will_ kill you.” And then one of the figures tore off into the trees, as fast and unexpectedly as a spooked beast.

The other figure tensed as if to follow, but in the end, didn’t. Just stood there. And eventually turned towards Theon. The victor eying his prize.

“Be calm,” the dark voice instructed, and as much as Theon felt his heart should be kicking up its pace, he instead relaxed against his bonds. The cold hand from earlier reached for his tied wrist. “You are tired.”

Theon nodded in agreement as his arm came free and he half-slumped against the man with the mysterious voice.

“Sleep.”

His eyelids fell closed.

END PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you Part I would be short. I'll be posting the "prologue" for Part II tomorrow, and then a brief break while I work on Part II.


	6. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter is short and definitely NSFW.

Present Day

Jon always became oddly religious when they fucked. “Oh…god,” he whined, grabbing fistfuls of sheet while Theon pounded into him. Unmercifully. He knew Jon could take it, loved it even. And besides, if at any point Jon _didn’t_ love it, he would let Theon know. And not politely either. Theon had been straight-up bucked off a time or two.

But Jon was loving it now. Theon couldn’t see his face, but he could read it in the tautness of his limbs, the trembling of the muscles on his sweat-soaked back, the way he met Theon’s every thrust with a choked-off whine.

“Oh god.”

“Are you going to spend without even touching your dick?” Theon chided.

Jon groaned, somewhere half between pleasured and aggravated. “Shut up, Greyjoy. You’re ruining it.”

Ruining it, right. Because when Theon talked, Jon couldn’t imagine it was someone else.

The unspoken hung heavily over them.

Jon looked up and over his shoulder, messy curls obscuring most of his face. His cheeks, flushed. His lips, flushed. A living body, warm inside and out. His eyes sought out Theon’s, as best they could. “I just meant…you talk too much.”

“Right.” Theon realized he’d lost his punishing pace, distracted by something that didn’t require thinking on.

To make up for it, he grabbed hold of Jon’s hair and pressed his face against the pillow. As he slammed back in, he bent in and latched onto Jon’s neck, grabbing with his teeth until he tasted the salty-sweet flavor of flesh, and began to suck. Jon moaned.

Theon didn’t have the teeth for it. He might pierce to the blood underneath if he tried hard enough, but it wouldn’t be the finesse of a true blood-drinker. This was the best he could give Jon, using his lips to work the flesh, laving at it. All the while fucking into him from behind.

Jon cried out. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the sheets harder. His walls fluttered around Theon’s cock, and Theon matched the sucking of his lips to match their spasming. After all this time, he knew what Jon needed.

And sure enough, Jon’s entire body tensed. The grip on Theon’s cock became almost painfully tight. His fingers tightened around Jon’s upper arms as the body beneath him rode out its climax and then relaxed under him a few seconds later.

Theon slowed his punishing pace and finished hardly three breaths later, then pulled out and rolled off of Jon. They lay there, side by side on the bed, panting. Sometimes it was nice to have another breath in bed with him.

Jon eventually rolled over onto his side, and Theon took in the sight of him. Covered in sweat and seed—both Theon’s and his own—hair a mess, purple marks blossoming all over his body where Theon’s hands had not been gentle, but most noticeably at his neck, where the faintest hint of teeth marks remained, sloppy and impermanent. It would all be healed within a few hours’ time.

“You _did_ spend without me touching your dick,” Theon noted.

Jon didn’t say anything. His eyes were heavily lidded, his full mouth drawn into a pout. The wanton creature was retreating once again. Too bad. He was infinitely more tolerable when he was enjoying himself.

“Did you enjoy it, at least?”

“You think I come to you to punish myself, Greyjoy?”

 _You do_ , Theon thought. It was all an elaborate self-flagellation. Not in the sense that he hated this, that he craved physical pain or humiliation in an attempt to punish himself for some perceived misdeed. But it was self-torture just the same. Because at the end of the day, it was just the illusion of the real thing.

Jon sat up, having recovered far ahead of Theon, and began to dress. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Theon watched him go without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll start posting Part II next week sometime. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the posting of Part II commence!

Theon opened his eyes and lay very still, trying to think of why he might be staring at a velvet canopy above him. And why the bed that held up that canopy was so soft. And why there was something tight about his throat.

In a flash, he remembered Snow’s hands on him, choking him, and he abruptly sat up and clawed at the thing around his neck. It wasn’t a hand, and his own hand came away with blood-covered cloth. A bandage. Right, because Snow had also cut his throat.

Yes, he remembered everything. Snow’s betrayal, being strung up as an offering, the fight between Snow and the man with the dark voice…

The man with the dark voice.

Theon scuttled to his knees and looked around. It was dark; the canopy curtains had been drawn. It was like wading through water as he made his way to the edge of the bed. As he reached for the curtains, he realized his arm had been bandaged as well, though he hadn’t immediately noticed because someone had dressed him in a loose-fitting nightdress. He paused only briefly to consider that, then decided he’d rather not and pulled back the curtains.

Daylight streamed in through a tall window, and he flinched back in surprise. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the room beyond the bed was lavish, if a bit old-fashioned. Furnished with matching dressers, armoire, and fainting couch—the bed was also made of the same polished red-tinged wood. A sun-faded area carpet. A mirror with a carved face looking downwards, forlornly. And a pair of wingback chairs turned towards the window, one of which was occupied by a…person—Theon could not immediately tell, from this angle if they were a man or woman—with exceptionally dark and curly hair.

Just as Theon realized he wasn’t alone, the person turned. It was a man, dressed entirely in black. The dark hair, the dark clothes, the colorless eyes…

Theon’s heart seized and his throat tightened. He made to draw the curtains closed—pitiful a protection they would provide, it was all he could think at the moment.

The man was faster, however, appearing at the bedside seemingly without even rising from his seat. He leaned in, a look of something like concern on his face. Up close, his eyes weren’t entirely colorless. Grey. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” he said. Not the dark voice from last night.

“You’ve…been watching me…sleep?”

The man’s cheeks turned the faintest hint of pink. “We don’t often have guests, but when we do, I’m usually the one to greet them. Someone with a pulse is usually more comforting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Theon glanced to the window, where the light of day was coming in at full force. Snow had said daylight killed… _them_. Though it could easily have been another lie.

“You’re…not one of them?” he hazarded.

“No,” the man answered. No need to clarify who “they” were to him. “I’m not.”

“You’re human?”

“I’m living.”

Not a very reassuring answer. Theon hugged the nightdress tightly about himself.

“I’m Jon.”

Theon didn’t offer his own name. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the castle of the Starks of Winterfell. You were brought here by Robb Stark, because you were wounded.” Robb Stark. The man with the dark voice was named Robb Stark. “He told us what happened in the forest.”

“What happened in the forest?” Theon wasn’t even sure himself.

Jon frowned. “You were strung up at the old sacrificial ruin, as bait to draw us out. Ramsay ambushed Lord Stark, but was driven off.”

“He left me to die.”

“Was he your friend?”

“Not as such.” Theon settled back against the pillows. “I didn’t know he meant to use me as bait. Not…like that.”

Jon took a seat on the edge of the bed frame, body angled and tense. “How do you know Ramsay?”

“You mean Snow? He told me his name was Snow.”

Jon leaned in, and there was an intimidating edge that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Did he bring you this far from the village by force?”

“No,” Theon answered before he could even think to lie. “I was…I am looking for someone. Snow said this person served the Starks and that he could take me to him.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you looking for?”

“A man named Patrek Mallister.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. He obviously hadn’t been expecting that. “Mallister? But he’s…” He quickly regained himself, his shoulders once more turning rigid. “So, you didn’t come here seeking…whatever stories the villagers tell?” His eyes may not have been the same color as Snow’s, but they held the same intensity.

“Snow warned me there were…” _Monsters_. “But…I needed to find Mallister.”

“Why?”

“He killed my brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened, and a moment of heavy silence passed.

“If he killed your brother,” Jon said at last, “he must have done so in self-defense.”

“Oh, doubtless,” Theon said, feeling a bit of his confidence return as he forced a cocky grin. “But he’s caused my mother a great deal of pain and I need to settle with him. Him and him alone. My concern isn’t with you or any of your…” _Masters? Charges?_ “House. I’m only here for Mallister.”

Another moment of silence.

“Mallister is under our protection.” With another sigh, Jon stood. The bed frame creaked. “Your wounds have been treated and you’ll be fine to travel as long as you don’t push yourself too hard. I’ll arrange for a horse and supplies to get you back to the village.”

Theon stared. “You’re saying Mallister _is_ here? And you expect me to leave?”

“You’re lucky to be leaving at all,” Jon growled. A hint of fang showed in his bared teeth.

Theon flinched at the sudden hostility.

But just as soon as it flared up, it ebbed away, and Jon’s shoulders slouched. “Go home,” he said, almost wearily. “Your mother’s already lost one son. She doesn’t need to lose another.”

It felt like a slap across his face. Because nobody on Pyke would care if he never returned—not his father, not his uncles, not his remaining brother, possibly not even Asha herself. But his mother…he’d come here on her account.

Jon turned to leave, but this time Theon was quicker, jumping to his feet and lunging across the mattress to grab the man’s wrist. Jon turned with an animalistic snarl, baring sharpened teeth, but Theon held fast. “I’m _not_ leaving here empty-handed,” he said, gritting his teeth in return. “I don’t mean to kill your man, if that’s what you’re worried about, not unless he means to keep me from what I’m looking for.”

Another look of surprise passed over Jon’s face, quickly replaced with skepticism.

“I didn’t come here for revenge,” Theon continued. “Mallister killed my brother in fair combat. It was a good death for him.” _Too good for him_ , Theon thought grimly. There’d been no love lost between them. “But Mallister did take something from him. A family heirloom. I promised my mother I would find it and bring it back to Pyke, where it belongs.”

He saw Jon’s skepticism fading, though stubbornly holding out at the same time. “An heirloom?”

“A seashell locket. With a mermaid’s pearl.”

“A mermaid’s pearl?”

“ _Said_ to be a mermaid’s pearl,” Theon corrected. He released Jon’s hand, and Jon did not immediately pull away. “It’s been in the family for a long time, and it would mean the world to my mother to have it back.”

Jon was silent for a long time, his face unreadable.

Finally, he nodded. “Mallister is Lady Stark’s servant. I will speak to her about the matter. To see if we can have this…heirloom returned.”

“Thank you,” Theon said and sank back onto the bed.

Jon didn’t acknowledge that. “In the meantime, you should re-bandage your throat and rest while your injuries heal. But whatever you do, I don’t want you leaving this room, do you understand?”

Theon nodded.

“I want to hear it,” Jon snapped.

“I understand,” Theon answered, like a schoolboy called upon in class.

“Good.” Jon turned to go, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll have a meal sent up to you at midday.”

“Thank you,” Theon said again, and Jon didn’t even seem to hear this one, instead slipping silently out of the room.


	8. Chapter 8

Theon re-bandaged his throat but ignored the other part of Jon’s suggestion because it wasn’t humanly possible to rest in these circumstances. True, if the other…occupants of the castle were anything like Jon, they weren’t what Theon had been led to expect, but that didn’t mean he would allow his guard down, even for a second.

Perhaps an hour or two later, there was a soft knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a young woman entered, balancing a tray on one hand while she navigated through the doorway. She was just a slip of a thing, wearing a plain dress with a high neck, brown hair tied back in a bun. She kept her eyes on the ground as she approached the bed.

“I’ve brought you lunch, sir,” she mumbled and set the tray at the edge of the mattress.

Theon scooted towards it, and she took a step back.

“I won’t hurt you,” Theon said. Her skittishness was making him uneasy.

She just nodded, eyes still trained on the floor. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

He needed what he’d come here for so that he could leave. But in the meantime he had questions.

“Are you human?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you serve…them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t—stop calling me ‘sir.’”

“Yes, s… As you wish.”

“Are you…” He looked around the room, as if he might spy someone listening to them from some dark corner. “Are you being kept here against your will?”

She finally raised her eyes to look at her. They were wide and brown. “No. Not at all. I owe Lady Stark my life.”

Theon blinked in surprise.

But just as he opened his mouth for another question, the young woman took in a deep breath. “Do you _need_ anything else?” she repeated with emphasis, marking their conversation as over.

“I…no, I’m fine.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me.” She turned and walked from the room at a clipped pace.

Theon sighed and gathered up the tray into his lap. The food looked palatable enough—warm bread and thick soup—and there wasn’t any reason to believe it was drugged or poisoned. What would be the possible purpose? Unless it was some sort of…potion to make him more suggestible. The young woman had been adamant about serving under her own free will, but Theon couldn’t help but remember Snow’s stories of women taken from human villages. Hadn’t Snow also mentioned something about entrancement?

Memories of the dark voice and how Theon had so badly wanted to obey its commands rose up in his mind. He shuddered. These creatures didn’t need poisoned food to alter his mind.

He ate.

And then, impossibly, he slept. Though he didn’t realize it until he woke up. The room was dark, and someone had come in and taken his empty tray. He must have slept deeply, unmoving, because his neck and limbs were stiff. He couldn’t remember dreaming.

His limbs snapped as he sat up and stretched, then stood and made his way to the window, where someone—possibly the young woman from before—had also drawn the curtains. He parted the thick fabric to see that night had fallen once again. A full moon cast eerie light on the forest and ravine.

Behind him, something creaked.

He whirled. “Hello?”

No one responded. It could easily have been the castle settling. Except now he was aware of a sliver of light, pouring in from a crack in the door that had been closed just a moment ago. On bare feet, he made his way to the door and paused.

“Hello?” he called again, louder.

Still no response. He pushed on the door, and it swung outwards with a creak. Hesitantly, he peered out into a hallway lit with sconces. The flickering torches sent odd shadows dancing across the floor, but other than that, there was no movement, nobody about.

There was a sound, though. Something faint and just below the sound of crackling fire. The closer Theon listened, the more he could convince himself it was just the wind whistling through the old stones. Not a whispering voice.

He eased the door closed.

As he turned back, a cold shiver ran up his back and into his jaw, setting his hair and teeth on edge. His cuts suddenly ached, as if they were trying to re-open. It was the same sensation as last night—someone close, watching him. Taking in shallow breaths, he looked around the moon-lit room.

“Don’t be frightened.”

The voice came from the corner of the room, a dark shape Theon would have dismissed as a shadow. And though Theon knew he should be frightened, he wasn’t.

“You’re the one who saved me last night.” He knew the voice, recognized it. “You’re Robb Stark.”

“I am.”

The shadow drifted forward, and a beam of moonlight fell across the stranger. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though not as impossibly large and looming as he’d seemed last night. He was like a statue come to life—face handsome and hard, and pale as marble, lips tinged gray. He looked very much a corpse, stood upright for those photographs that were so in vogue on the mainland. The only bit of life to him was his hair, so wildly red that even the colorless moonlight couldn’t completely hide it.

He was terrifying and beautiful and Theon couldn’t breathe.

Robb Stark drew closer, and Theon pressed himself flat against the door. A cold hand emerged from behind a grey cloak, utterly pale, the nail beds gray. Theon thought, distantly, that he should be repulsed, but he wasn’t as Robb reached for his bandaged neck, caressed it thoughtfully. “Tell me your name?” he said gently.

“Theon Greyjoy.”

“You’re not from these parts.”

“No.”

The fingers brushing his throat slowly retreated, almost reluctantly.

Theon swallowed. “Thank you.”

Robb cocked his head.

“For saving me.”

Up close, Theon could make out the color of Robb’s eyes, a starling blue. They never quite made it up to Theon’s face, however, instead focusing on his neck. He must have noticed that Theon noticed, because he quickly said, “Jon says you are well, but I wanted to see for myself.”

“I’m healing.”

“That’s good.”

There was silence, and stillness. Robb watched him, unblinking, unmoving. It seemed he was more like a statue than just in appearance.

“Are you…?” Theon’s question trailed off as he thought better of it.

“What?”

“Are you truly dead?”

At that, Robb smiled. Fangs flashed, and yet it was a good-natured smile. “I could show you my coffin.”

“Your…coffin?”

“I wasn’t buried in it, of course. I never had a proper burial.”

“Then you really are…?”

Robb stepped in close, forcing Theon’s back against the door. Theon wasn’t that much shorter, and yet the difference seemed all the starker in that moment. “You _know_ what I am,” he said, reaching out his hand again with an odd, jerky movement. It seemed almost a compulsion as it brushed back and forth along the bandages at Theon’s throat. “You don’t need to be afraid.” A cold finger dug under the cloth, exploring, loosening. “I won’t hurt you.”

Just as Theon was sure he was going to tug the bandage loose, Robb snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t...” He grabbed Theon’s arm and pulled. “I shouldn’t be here.”

For the first time, Theon felt afraid. The way he should have felt the entire time. Like waking up and only then realizing how strange your dream had been. Robb was strong, and he wrenched Theon away from the door as if he were a child. He wasn’t human; he’d admitted as such, but only then did it occur to Theon what such an inhuman creature might be doing here, in his room, with nobody else around.

He tensed to fight back, whatever resistance mortal strength could offer, but Robb only drew him aside enough to open the door. Then, like a cat, he slipped through the impossibly small crack and vanished.

Theon stood, stunned and panting, for several seconds. His heart thundered in his chest as whatever entrancement he’d been under dissipated. Limbs shaking, he turned to the door and peered out into the hallway. But as he’d suspected, there remained no sign of Robb Stark.

He became acutely aware of how _cold_ the room was. He ran from the warmth and safety of the bed and pulled the canopy curtains closed behind him, to offer whatever scant protection they could against an inhumanly fast, inhumanly strong, inhumanly silent dead man. Then he crawled under the covers. He lay there for the longest time, curled in on himself and yet unable to get any warmth to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [death photography](https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-36389581) Theon talks about. Article contains disturbing content, but only once you realize that not all the people in these photos are alive.


	9. Chapter 9

Theon woke with a small gasp. His mind raced to catch up. And then a sense of relief washed over him. Another dream. It had just been a dream. He couldn’t be held accountable for what he dreamed about, could he? Though _why_ he would dream _that_ …

Hands on his chest, running down his sides to his hips. Lips brushing against the side of his neck.

No, it had been a dream and didn’t deserve more thinking on. He sat up and remembered where he was. The relief gave way to discomfort. Somehow, after that strange encounter last night, he’d managed to fall back asleep. And then he’d dreamed about…

_Please, please, make me yours. I want—I want it._

He jumped up and pulled back the canopy’s curtains. He’d forgotten to draw the curtains on the window last night, and now the light of day came streaming in. Someone had been in, because a change of clothes had been set out for him on the fainting couch.

Theon climbed off the bed and approached them warily. After his encounter with Robb Stark, he did not like the idea of someone he was unaware of coming into his room. Tentatively, he reached for the clothes. They were not his, but they were made of quite fine material he realized as he held them up. And they looked to be a close enough fit. He pulled off the nightdress, took a moment to assess the bandaged cuts on his body, and then slipped into the plain white dress shirt and brown trousers. There were no boots. He had no idea where his own might be, to say nothing of his jacket and pistol.

Just as he was fastening the final button of the shirt, there came a knock at the door. They certainly had an uncanny sense of timing in this castle.

“Are you decent?” Jon’s voice asked.

“I’m dressed,” Theon answered back, and Jon let himself in. “How did you know I was awake?”

“I could hear you moving around,” Jon said absently.

Theon glanced down at his bare feet. He hadn’t been trying to be especially stealthy, but he also hadn’t thought he’d been making that much noise either.

“Also, your breathing. It’s shallower and more even when you’re asleep. Not _you_ , specifically. I mean…people. Humans. Animals too, but…” Jon’s cheeks flushed slightly. He really was a striking man, Theon realized, with his dark hair and full lips and grey eyes. There was no shame in merely noticing it.

“You’re not one of _them_ ,” he remarked as he began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, “but you’re not human.”

Jon held his gaze. “No.”

“You’re something in between.”

Jon nodded. “I’m a damphir.”

Theon knew that word. “An abomination.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “An abomination.”

“Snow…he’s like you, isn’t he?”

“Ramsay?” His lip curled. “I’m nothing like him.”

“Then he’s not—?”

“The product of a vampire and a mortal,” Jon interrupted him, disgust written in every line of his face. “Yes, but that’s about all we share in common. Ramsay was born of a forcible union between his father and a mortal woman, while I…” He trailed off. “We’re both abominations, unnatural in our own ways.”

The air in the room became tense, and Theon knew he shouldn’t prod. “Do you drink blood?”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him, incredulous.

“Snow…the man you call Ramsay…he said my blood smelled putrid to him.”

“Your blood isn’t _putrid_ ,” Jon said. “It’s potent…but it’s just blood.”

“Just blood?”

“I’ve never craved it, the way _they_ do,” Jon said, and his hand went, almost absentmindedly, to his mouth, his teeth. “And the few times I made myself drink it, it made me…ill.” He made a sour face. “I won’t feed from you— _can’t_ —if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“And what of your masters?” Theon asked sharply.

“My masters?”

“The Starks. Would they…feed from me?”

Jon narrowed his eyes. His gaze became intense again. “You won’t have to deal with any of them. Just me.”

“I’ve already dealt with Robb Stark.”

Jon took a lurching step towards him, so sudden that Theon recoiled a step in return. “Robb? You met with him? When? Where? I told you not to leave this room!”

“I didn’t!” Theon protested. “He was here.”

Jon grabbed Theon’s shoulders. His grip, like Snow’s and Robb’s before, was unnaturally strong. “Here? He came to see you?”

Theon could only nod.

“Shit,” Jon cursed, seemingly to himself. Then, to Theon, “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He didn’t…we hardly spoke, and then he left.”

“What did you speak about?”

“I only thanked him for saving my life.”

“And how did he seem?”

Theon shook his head in confusion. “I’m not sure I—”

“Was he in control of himself?”

Theon recalled Robb’s eyes and fingers continually seeking out his throat. “He was calm the whole time,” he answered distantly, uncertainly. “He left suddenly, though.”

“And you? Were _you_ in control of _your_ self?”

“Yes, of c—” Theon began to answer, but then stopped abruptly. He remembered the sense of calm, both at the altar and in this very room last night, and how, even at the time, he’d thought it strange. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” Jon released him, though he’d been gripping so hard, Theon could still feel where his fingers had been.

“Am I in danger?” Theon asked.

“You’re in danger until you return to the village.” Jon reached into the pocket of his trousers. “I’ve made your arrangements. If you’re feeling well enough, I would suggest you leave today, while there is still daylight to travel by.”

Theon blinked in surprise. “But I haven’t—”

“I spoke with Mallister last night,” Jon interrupted, pulling something free from his pocket. “He’s agreed to return your family heirloom.” He tossed the object to Theon, who fumbled to catch it.

Theon recognized the clamshell-clasp locket and frayed chord. Though he’d not often had a chance to feel it for himself, he’d often seen it around Rodrik’s neck. It was unostentatious, made of pewter so that nobody could accuse the eldest Greyjoy of being a peacock, though Rodrik often boasted about what was inside, and how fortune favored him because of it. Not favored him enough to side with him in a duel against Patrek Mallister, it seemed.

Theon opened the locket and let out a relieved breath to see the pearl inside. Obsidian black and no bigger than a pebble. Poor thing, so far from the sea and the hands that had held it for generations. The thing he had traveled all this way for. Had nearly died for. 

“Are you satisfied?” Jon asked, pulling Theon’s attention back to him.

“Yes.”

“Then your business is done here.”

He supposed it was. How anticlimactic, that he would not even meet the man who had killed his brother. Not that he felt any resentment. Jon had been right in that Rodrik had most likely deserved what he’d gotten at Mallister’s hands. He’d always been a bully, a braggart, and a drunkard. But his death had hurt his mother greatly.

Theon clutched the necklace tightly in his hand. He should go. He should be eager to go. Tangling with dead men…it was not what he’d agreed to when he’d promised his mother he would return with the family heirloom.

And part of him did. The part that knew, on an animal level, that there was something very wrong in these parts. The land itself was unnatural, to say nothing of the risen corpses that roamed it after the sun set. But the other part of him felt oddly drawn to the creature that had saved his life. Robb Stark, with the dark, calming voice. Was it entrancement, as Snow had suggested? If it was, he should leave immediately, and hope it did not follow him.

“I think…” he said slowly, “I should like to rest another day.”

Jon looked surprised. He’d probably been expected Theon to take him up on his offer. Hell, _Theon_ had been expecting to take him up on his offer. “What for?”

“I was carved up like a pig for butchering,” Theon said defensively. “You offered to let me stay until I was healed.”

Jon’s face darkened. “I know how long it takes humans to heal. Probably better than you. Your cuts were not deep and you didn’t lose much blood. Not enough to warrant risking another night here.”

Theon’s hand went to the bandage at his throat. “They could reopen if I don’t allow them time to fully heal.”

“You haven’t been bleeding for a night and a day.”

“I was bleeding last night.”

Jon bared his teeth. Sharpened fangs flashed, and it was all the warning Theon had before the other man was grabbing him by the collar and pushing him back, so that his knees hit the fainting couch. “Why are you making excuses? Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying,” Theon lied.

“None of your cuts reopened,” Jon snarled. “I would have smelled it.” He grabbed the bandage around Theon’s throat and wrenched. If it had been made of stronger material, it might very well have choked him. As it was, it came away easily.

Jon stared.

Theon froze, watching him stare. He swallowed, a something warm dribbled down his throat.

“You’re bleeding,” Jon stated. He stared at the bandage in his hand, the rust-colored stain where it had been lying against the cut, raised it slightly to his nose. “It only smells like…” He trailed off. Then seemed to realize he was still holding Theon in an uncomfortable position and backed off, releasing his grasp. “You can stay as long as you want. I’ll send Jeyne in to re-bandage you.”

He let the old bandage fall from his hand. His eyes searched Theon’s, some probing question there Theon couldn’t guess at.

“I understand it,” Jon said at last. “The pull of it. It’s…” He took in a deep breath.

“What…” Theon’s voice felt dry. “What is it like? When they feed from you?”

Jon’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed again. “I wouldn’t know.” He stepped back and turned. “My blood would kill them.”


	10. Chapter 10

The “Jeyne” Jon had referred to ended up being the young woman from before. She arrived not long after Jon’s quick departure, carrying a roll of bandages in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. “I’m to redress your wounds, si…” She caught herself in time, but then couldn’t seem to think of anything else to address him as and finished with, “sir” anyway. “Please have a seat wherever you’ll be most comfortable.” She motioned to either the bed or the fainting couch.

Theon chose the fainting couch. “Do I need to change?”

She set the bucket down and began unrolling the cloth. “Unless your other wounds have reopened, I can treat you as you’re dressed now.” She dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out. “Have your other wounds reopened?”

“No,” Theon replied with certainty, though he hadn’t checked.

Jeyne approached with the wet cloth. “I’m just going to wash out your cut again. Is that alright?”

“Fine by me.”

She pressed the cloth to his throat. She had a gentle touch, and the way her thin eyebrows pinched together as she concentrated on her work made her prettier than he’d first given her credit for. As she turned her head this way and that as she washed out the cut, Theon caught sight of something just under her high-necked collar. A mark of some sort. Without thinking, he reached out and gently pulled back her collar.

Her reaction was immediate. She pulled back, but not before Theon caught a good look at the two punctures halfway up her neck, unlike any bite marks—human or animal—he’d seen before. But then she was throwing her hand over it, staring at him with disgust and disbelief.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Do they bite you often?”

She scowled at him. “I _allow_ them to feed from me.”

“What is it like?”

She blinked.

“Is it…” Theon spread his arms wide. “Enjoyable?”

Her cheeks flushed, adding some much-needed color to her face. “That’s hardly any of your business.”

“You’re right,” Theon said, switching tacks. “Of course you’re right. It’s none of my business.” He placed his hands on his lap to demonstrate he meant to keep them to himself. “I was just…I’d been told they drain their victims dry.”

Jeyne’s nostrils flared. “I am not a victim,” she said harshly. “And Lady Stark can control herself just fine, thank you very much.” She bent down and gathered up the bucket and sopping wet cloth. “I think you can finish bandaging yourself.”

“No, wait I—” Theon rose after her, which only caused her to scurry. “I’m sorry. Really. I’m just curious. I’m in a strange place and I’m not certain if I should fear for my life or not and no answers seem to be forthcoming.”

Jeyne paused at that, but her face was still guarded. “You don’t need to fear for your life. The Starks won’t kill you.”

“Are you certain?”

She shrugged. The water in the bucket sloshed with the motion. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“So the stories in the village about them killing humans…were they just that? Stories?”

Her eyes locked onto his, so different from the young woman who worked not to meet his gaze the day before. “Not all of them.” She sighed and shifted the handle of the bucket to her other hand. “Have you ever hunted, sir?”

“Theon,” he corrected. “I grew up in a fishing village.”

“So you’ve _fished_?”

“I’ve watched fishermen, yes.” He suspected where she was going.

“Did you ever feel pity for the fish they caught?”

“No,” he lied. As a child, he’d been very upset to watch it for the first time. The way the fish flopped on the ground after the nets had been hauled in, the way their eyes bulged as they gasped for breath. They looked like they were in such pain. He’d cried. But just the one time. His brothers saw to that.

“And so it is with them,” Jeyne finished with a shrug. “Of course humans think they’re cruel, the same way I imagine those fish must think we’re cruel. But the Starks don’t delight in killing and the pain it brings. It’s just that they are the fishermen and we are the fish, to eat or to throw back as they see fit.”

“But not you.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You stay with them, on your own free will, according to you.” He raised his hands up questioningly. “Why?”

For a moment, he thought she would simply turn and walk away as she had before. But she stood there, as if contemplating, perhaps what or even if to answer him.

“Because humans _are_ cruel,” she said at last.

Theon didn’t know what he could possibly say to that.

“Do you want me to finish bandaging you up?”

“No, I…I think I can do it.” He tipped his head. “Thank you.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, Theon?”

He opened his mouth instinctively to say no, but stopped himself. “Actually…would it be too much trouble to take a bath? I’m a little…” He shrugged and gave her his best smile.

It had melted many girls’ hearts, but not hers, apparently, because she simply nodded. “The bathing room is down the hall. I’ll have the tub drawn for you. You should know, though, that I _volunteered_ to tend to you when Lord Stark brought you back.” She arched an eyebrow. “As one mortal to another. I tell you this so you don’t get the impression I’m some lowly servant. I won’t be washing your balls for you.”

Theon’s mouth dropped open. But before he could protest, she had turned and headed for the door, where she paused and looked back.

“I’m afraid we don’t have running water, but your bath should be ready in half an hour, Theon.” With a cordial tilt of the head, she left.

Theon sank back onto the fainting couch. He couldn’t say her vulgar assessment of him had been wrong—or _would_ have been wrong, if anything of the sort had been on his mind. Which it hadn’t.

She’d been a little more forthcoming this time, at least, though she’d done nothing to dispel his initial notion that she was either under entrancement or else mad. But then again, he could be either of those as well.

He reached for the roll of bandages she’d left and contemplated redressing his wound, then figured there wasn’t much point if he was just going to get it wet in a few minutes. And as much as he’d played it up in front of Jon, he wasn’t bleeding that badly anyway. He wasn’t sure why the wound had chosen that exact moment, when Jon had ripped off the bandage, to start bleeding again, but he was glad for the delay.

He ran his hands over his face. Glad. Glad to spend another night in this godforsaken castle in this godforsaken country. He really must be going mad.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite Jeyne’s warning about there being no running water, Theon was pleasantly surprised to find a modern bathtub. And quite a fine one, too, with its intricate clawed feet. There were, however, no handles or facets, and the steaming water that filled it had obviously come from the cauldron over the lit fire.

“They haven’t been able to install pipes or electrical wiring,” Jeyne explained primly, “but importing the odd modern luxury isn’t too difficult. Most of the time.”

Theon turned to her. He couldn’t imagine lugging a bathtub through the terrain he’d passed.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your bath.” Jeyne motioned to the fireplace and the bucket set off to the side. The same bucket she’d used to clean his cut, for all he knew. “Your water should be a comfortable temperature, but if it starts to run cold, feel free to add more.”

He nodded and waited for her to leave and close the door before stripping out of his clothes. He pulled off his shirt, reached for the lanyard around his neck, then thought better of it. He’d come too far to run the risk of misplacing it, so he left it on and went on to his trousers. The bandages came off last, and he took a moment to study his cuts.

Snow had done a good job of making them. The ones on his arm and chest were considerably deeper than the one of his throat, though they had mostly scabbed over by now. He ran a tentative finger along the one on his arm, tracing it down his wrist and to his elbow. Just looking at it brought back a phantom tingling of being tied in the snow.

He shook it off and stepped into the tub. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d been until the steam hit him, and he sank with a sigh into the water. His cuts stung at the contact, especially the freshly opened one, but it was a minor discomfort. There hadn’t been anywhere to take a bath since he’d set out from Pyke. Over a week’s worth of dirt and sweat, as well as aches from traveling, from being choked and then sliced up like a ham, began to melt away. The tub was a good size, allowing him to lean against the gentle slope of the back and rest his knees against the sides. Calm and relaxed, legs spread open, a thought came to him.

_What would happen if one of them—if Robb Stark—walked in on me like this? I’ve made myself quite vulnerable. Would he sink his teeth into my throat?_ He felt at his neck, imagining what he would look like with the same marks Jeyne wore. _Would he ravish me?_

That was the thought that brought him back to himself. No, he shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts. And if he did, he should definitely be more disgusted.

Snow’s words rang in his head. _Plenty of people willing to fuck a corpse._

He looked hurriedly to the window. It was hard midday, and the rays coming through the glass illuminated every dust particle in the air. He was perfectly safe from them. No need to think about what they would do if they walked in.

With an aggravated huff, he sank deeper into the water, all the way, leaving the air above him. The world became muffled sounds and sights—the water lapping at the sides of the tub, his hair like dark tendrils floating about his face, the sound of his own heartbeat.

No, that wasn’t his heartbeat. It was sharper, slower. Dripping water. Water that had been dripping for ages, slowly wearing down the stones of the castle. He saw it all as clearly as if it were his own memory. Snow and ice creeping in through the mortar, thawing in spring, freezing again with the next snow, over and over again since long before he’d been born. Until finally breaking through to the other side, to become a drip.

He opened his eyes, and he was no longer in a bathtub but a puddle on a stone floor, far below and out of sight of the sun. And there were figures, three of them, speaking. Normally the puddle didn’t care much for the castle’s inhabitants, but for Theon it didn’t mind remembering.

“You shouldn’t have gone on your own.” Jon’s voice, Jon’s dark curls backlit by a sconce from behind.

“You had to have known it was a trap.” A woman Theon had not seen before. She wore a voluminous dress and her red hair styled intricately on top of her head. Her face looked like one of the dolls in his mother’s room—pale, delicate, made of porcelain. Asha had never taken an interest in dolls, and so it sat on its shelf, picked up only long enough to brush it free of dust.

“I handled it.” Theon’s heart slowed to a crawl. Robb Stark. This was a memory, he understood, from last night. Though he could not be certain if it had been before or after Robb’s visit to him in his room; the puddle did not have an overly intricate understanding of time, after all.

“Handled it?” the woman’s voice jumped an octave. “You could have been killed. Your shoulder—”

“Will heal,” Robb interrupted.

“You’ll be weak until you feed again.”

“Then I’ll feed again.”

“From who?”

There was silence. Theon counted his heartbeats, waiting for them to speak.

“Who will you feed from?” the woman asked again. “Jeyne can’t handle another feeding so soon, and even if she could, I wouldn’t allow it.”

Jon spoke up. “Is that why you brought the human back?”

The human. They were talking about him.

“Of course not,” Robb replied after an unconvincing pause.

“You drank his blood.”

“No,” the reply came like a whip crack. “I did not.”

Another strained silence.

“I only…tasted. He was cut. I never drew any blood.”

Theon’s heart stopped. Robb Stark had…?

The woman let out an angry sigh.

“It was a moment of weakness, Sansa.”

“It’s probably best if you leave me to deal with him,” Jon spoke up. “I’ll have him gone by tomorrow.”

Robb drew his deathly pale lips into a hard line. “I don’t like it. Ramsay is still wandering the countryside.”

“Arya will find him,” Jon said. “In the meantime, if you need to feed, perhaps you should go to Patrek. He’s the one who killed the young man’s brother, after all.”

“No,” the woman, Sansa, cut in, “I won’t have it. Patrek’s family has served us for generations. Robb, his great-grandfather served our mother!”

“I’m not suggesting you drain him to the last drop.”

“No,” Robb agreed, running a hand through his hair. “I will hear Patrek’s side of things and then I will decide what punishment, if any, he deserves. But either way, I will neither ask nor demand for his blood as recompense.”

“But if he gives it to you freely—”

“It can’t be freely given if he feels compelled,” Robb interrupted Jon. “ _We_ follow _your_ rules, Jon. In turn, I ask that _you_ respect _ours_.”

Jon said nothing to that.

“What will you do?” Sansa asked, softer this time. “You need to feed, Robb.”

“Arya will bring me something back.”

“I would give you my blood,” Jon said. “If I could.”

The puddle watched as Robb smiled and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I know, Jon. And I appreciate it. You know you will always be a brother to me. We are bound by blood, and that’s not something to take lightly among our kind.”

“Our kind,” Jon repeated hollowly.

Robb’s smile gave way to a grimace, a wince of pain, and he withdrew his hand. “I’m afraid Ramsay did get a good hit in. There must have been silver in that knife.”

“You’re lucky he only got your shoulder,” Sansa said.

“I think…I should rest.”

“Rest?” Sansa followed him as he turned to go. “But the night is still young.”

Robb held out a hand to stay her. “I must conserve my strength, until Arya returns with something to bolster my stores.” He slipped silently beyond the light of the torch, so quiet that not even the puddle heard the sounds of his footsteps.

Theon broke to the surface with a gasp. His hands grasped the sides of the tub as he slipped back into the frame of mind of being solid, being a human. That…whatever that had been…it had never happened before. The locket around his neck was warm against his chest, while the water in the tub had turned tepid. He’d been under a long time, he realized.

He wiped the water from his face and ran a hand through his soaking hair. His skin prickled with gooseflesh in the cool air. The fire was still crackling; he could easily reheat the tub, as Jeyne had suggested. The thought didn’t hold much appeal to him at the moment.

He stood and reached for a towel. He’d been soaking long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in Part II, and then I'll need to take a break while I finish Part III.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning for this chapter. It includes brief implications of things like rape, miscarriage, and pregnancy complications, just so nobody's blindsided by anything.

“Did you enjoy your bath?”

At the sound of Jon’s voice, Theon snapped the locket closed and slipped the lanyard under his shirt. It was ridiculous, but for some reason, he felt that just by seeing it Jon would know what it had done, what it had shown him in the bathtub. And he didn’t want Jon knowing.

“Jeyne said you wanted to speak with me?” Jon asked, poised at the bedroom’s threshold, one hand still on the doorknob, as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave it open or close it behind him.

Theon nodded and stood from where he’d been perched on the edge of the bed for the better part of an hour. His hair was mostly dry by now, but he ran a hand through it anyway, combing it out with his fingers. “I want to meet them.”

Jon froze. “No.” He closed the door behind him with a clipped click. “You don’t.”

“I want to meet Robb Stark, properly.”

Jon shook his head. “That is a terrible idea.”

“Why?” Theon approached Jon. “Do you think he would hurt me?”

“I…” Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Then shook his head again. “He’s wounded.”

“Do you think _I_ would hurt _him_? Do you even think I _could_?” Theon thumped his chest. “I know Robb was wounded saving my life. I know he needs to feed to recover his strength. I want to repay him, and if that means letting him feed from me, then I’ll give my blood freely.” There, it was out in the open. An offer he couldn’t retract.

Jon’s face darkened. It was so sudden. Theon didn’t have time to react as Jon grabbed the collar of his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he snarled. “A wounded vampire is the _most_ dangerous because it’s irrational and unpredictable.”

He lifted Theon up, only to slam him against the wall again, knocking his head against the stones. Theon winced.

“Does that hurt?” Jon growled. “Good. I’m going to have to beat it into your thick fucking skull.”

He made to do it again, but Theon threw up a hand. He didn’t stand a chance against Jon’s strength, and only a croaked, “Stop,” came out.

And Jon did stop. He looked surprised, then disgusted, then released Theon’s collar and took a step back. There was something remorseful in his demeanor as he made for the fainting couch and collapsed heavily onto it, arms resting on his knees.

“You want to know what makes me such an abomination?”

He didn’t give Theon time to answer.

“Unlike Ramsay, who was born of a dead man and a mortal woman, _I_ was born of a mortal man and dead woman.” He looked up at Theon, almost accusatory. “Do you know why that’s strange?”

He did give Theon time to answer, but Theon couldn’t guess.

“Vampires are dead,” Jon said. “There is no breath in their lungs, and no blood pumps through their hearts…” He placed a closed fist over his chest, as if demonstrating. “Unless it is with fresh mortal blood, taken from a human.” He clenched and unclenched his fist, mimicking the beating of a heart. “And only then the semblance of life lasts a few days…occasionally a week if they drain their victim completely, from head to toe.” His fist stilled, before he finally opened it and let it fall back into his lap. “A dead man only needs a few minutes of that borrowed life to plant his seed inside a mortal woman. But a dead woman…once the blood cools, her body returns to its dead state and her womb becomes barren.”

He paused, for which Theon was grateful. He felt as if he needed to catch his breath.

Jon allowed him another moment to process what he’d said before finishing. “Unless she continually renews the blood within her…to keep the life inside of her growing.”

Theon felt breathless again. “Then you’re saying…?”

“That my mother killed to keep her body alive for me? Yes,” Jon said with a nod. “Over forty people died to give me life…including my own mother.” His gaze became distant, locking somewhere well beyond Theon, beyond this room. His voice was oddly quiet. “There was a complication during her labor. Our blood mingled. Her blood didn’t harm me at all—in fact, it had been feeding me from the start. But my blood poisoned hers, and she died before I could be delivered. My uncle had to cut me from her womb, lest she take me with her.”

Strained silence. Jon seemed to be the one who needed a moment to catch his breath this time.

“One of those forty who died for me was also my father,” he continued. “Normally, my mother had excellent self-control. He was her blood doll, and she fed from him often. According to the stories everyone tells of them, at least. But late into her pregnancy…rationality fled her, and while feeding from him, she took every last drop…to sustain me.”

He stood, wearily. Theon had no idea how old Jon was, but he seemed ancient in that moment, world-weary. Perhaps, if the story he’d told was true, he’d come into the world world-weary.

“I detest that anyone had to die to bring me into this world, and once the Starks took me in, I asked that they not kill to feed themselves. And as long as they have their blood dolls—or as long as they can take just as much as they need from travelers and villagers—they keep their word to me. Out of respect for my mother, I imagine.”

Theon recalled the vision the puddle had shown him, the affectionate way Robb had thrown his arm over Jon’s shoulder and called him “brother.” He imagined it was more than merely respect for the man’s mother.

“But that’s only when they’re able to control themselves. Robb is wounded and…” Jon turned his head away, as if he’d suddenly become unable to meet Theon’s eyes. “I don’t think he could control himself around you.”

Theon nodded absently.

“And that’s why you shouldn’t be here.”

Again, Theon nodded.

Jon took a step towards him, seeming uncertain, almost drunk. “I don’t know what else to tell you to convince you,” he said. “If you wish to throw away all my good will so far…” He threw up his hand in the air. “Then do it. I can’t save you from yourself indefinitely, no more than I can save you from…them.” He shambled past Theon, not even looking as he reached for the doorknob. “If you want to seek them out, do so on your own, but don’t ask me to have a hand in another mortal’s death.”

***

Theon thought about what Jon had said. He did.

But by the time the sun had begun to set, sending orange rays through the tall window and onto the floor, he’d already decided. Perhaps he’d decided long before then. He stood and drew the curtains. Then he walked for the door, rolling his left sleeve up to his bicep as he went. He had not bothered to re-bandage the cut on his arm there, and it didn’t take much effort to get the cut to reopen again. Almost as if it wanted to reopen.

The hallway was dim with torchlight, empty and cold as it had been last night. Theon looked one way then the other, but there was nobody out.

He could go looking, he knew. He could start walking until he came upon someone. From what he had seen in his vision, they kept their lairs beneath the castle. A crypt, in the most morbid sense of the word. But he also knew a way to bring them to him.

He held out his arm and clenched his fist. In the dimness, his blood looked almost black as it dribbled down his elbow and onto the ground. He allowed it to drip for a few seconds, then stepped back and clutched at the wound with his other hand to stem the bleeding. It throbbed dully with the beating of his heart.

Theon looked at the small puddle of blood at his feet. And then he waited.

END PART II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have new chapters to post by either this weekend or early next week. I will be posting the interlude to Part III when it's ready to go, which should be a little sooner than that.


	13. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the interlude for Part III. To be honest, I have no idea when Part III will be ready, but I hope to start posting chapters by later next week.
> 
> More NSFW content in this chapter.

There was a knock on the door. It was Sansa, looking flushed and alive.

“Theon.” Her voice had that low and throaty—sultry—quality it took on right after a feeding.

She didn’t need to say any more. Theon waved her inside.

She stepped in with an air of familiarity, sweeping her cloak off her shoulders and depositing it over the fainting couch with well-practiced ease. Then she turned and alit on the couch, like a delicate bird. What wasn’t delicate was the way she hitched up her skirts and thrust out a shapely leg, and the knee-high boots hugging that shapely leg. Her glowing eyes flickered to her foot, and that was all the prompting Theon needed—both to jump to her orders and to feel a stirring in his breeches.

He planted one knee on the carpet and began working at the laces of her boot. His fingers were quite good, if he did say so himself, and he soon had it loosened enough to slip it off. She pulled her delicate, ladylike foot free with a soft moan and crossed her legs to offer the other boot, which Theon also made quick work of.

“Mmm,” she said in approval and uncrossed her legs, so that Theon could remove her stockings. The flesh revealed as he unrolled her stockings was lovely and lively, and warm and giving beneath his fingers. On the second stocking, he leaned in to kiss her inner thigh. He could smell her already, her eagerness.

She shifted, pushed her hips forward and her shoulders back, and gathered her skirts up to her waist to give him better access. Besides a lace garter, she wore no undergarments. Her red curls looked especially inviting against her flushed skin, and her cunt was wet and swollen.

Theon placed a hand on either knee and leaned in. He found her hardened bud and prodded with his tongue. Her moans guided him—faster, slower, this way, that. Her wetness had a strange, coppery taste to it. Not unpleasant, per se, but definitely a reminder that she had another woman’s blood flowing through her right now.

He could keep going for as long as she needed, but after a few minutes, a hand fisted in his hair and yanked his head back. And then warm lips were on his, the taste of fresh blood, the hint of sharp teeth. He moaned into it and wondered if she could taste herself on him. He wondered, far from the first time, what blood tasted like to them.

Sansa pushed him to the ground and straddled him, pinning him with her deceptively strong thighs as she undid the lacings of his breeches and working them down his hips. When his cock was free, she sank onto him with a drawn out groan, barely pausing to let their hips rest together. Then she was lifting herself up, back down, up. Theon couldn’t see with the folds of her skirts covering them, but he could feel it, the way she hugged him so tight, quivering inside and out as she took him.

And there was no doubt in his mind that _she_ was the one _taking_ him, dominating him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. There had been a time when he’d been shocked by her boldness. She seemed such a demure lady, poised and refined. But she was a different creature when her blood was up, wild and needy, like a cat in heat.

Theon reached up to her, let his hands rest on the curve of her hips until she grabbed his wrist, gently, and bit into it. She’d already fed this evening and did not take much, simply licking the wound when the blood welled in the two puncture marks. It was her justification for coming to him, a prim lady who did not want to ruin her figure by indulging in dessert.

She continued to ride him, setting her own pace until she shuddered and threw back her head. Eyes closed, lips barely parted, cheeks flushed. That look, so deceptively innocent, finally sent Theon over the edge as well, and he enjoyed feeling her shudder again as he spent inside her.

Finally, she collapsed back on top of him. She ran her hands through his hair as he waited to recover, both his breath and his stamina. She would want to go again, and soon.

He was still breathing heavily when she finally stood, letting him slip out of her. “Let’s move to the bed, shall we?” She had a way of making a request sound like a demand, and Theon climbed eagerly to his feet, happy to oblige either way. He pulled off his breeches, now bunched around his ankles, and his shirt before settling onto the mattress, right where she pointed. She smiled in approval and began to undo the buttons of her bodice.

Theon watched her fingers work, mesmerized. He leaned his cheek on the pillow. “May I ask you something, my lady?”

She stopped her work and gave him an odd look.

“It’s a bit personal.”

She considered for a moment, and then undid the last button. “There’s no harm in asking,” she said as she shrugged out of her bodice. Her skirts pooled around her feet, a half-second later, leaving her in only her corset and garter. “Though I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

“Fair enough.” He watched her undo her corset. She always kept it too tight, for she didn’t have to consider her lungs when dressing. Theon was not a fan of current women’s fashion, with their wasp-like waists and bustled skirts, but Sansa was, and often had the finest dresses imported. He preferred her as she was now, her curves and lines unimpeded with stiff fabric. She could make stiff fabric feel graceful, of course, but completely bare, she was as lithe and supple as a cat. He felt himself restirring and had almost changed his mind about asking his question. “Does Jeyne mind your coming to see me like this?”

He waited.

“Why would she?” Sansa answered evasively. “Does Robb mind that you come to me?” Her hands went to her head and undid the pin holding her hair in place. Fiery red locks tumbled down and over her shoulders. She shook them out, but they still retained their curls. “Does he mind that you go to Jon?”

He might if he knew it was _Jon_ who came to _him_ , and why. But regarding Sansa…

“No,” he said, “but I get the feeling it’s different for you.”

“For me?” Sansa asked, stalking towards the bed.

“Vampires,” he clarified. “Do you ever feel jealous?”

“Mmm,” Sansa hummed thoughtfully. She crawled onto the mattress. “We can very possessive.” She climbed on top of him, as if to prove it, and sat straddling his hips, rubbing herself against his quickly hardening dick.

It was all he could do to concentrate on their conversation. “I’m being serious.”

She paused and looked down at him. “I do remember what it was like to be human. I remember…feeling very differently about things than I do now.” She cocked her head, as if confused about the thoughts in her own head. “Happiness, anger, sadness…I felt everything so much more _strongly_ back then. But…I’ve forgotten what that was like.”

She was very still, sitting on his lap, lost in several mortal lifetimes’ worth of memories.

Theon took hold of her hands, warm between his fingers. “You should speak with Jeyne, see if she’s truly unbothered by…this.” He knew she wasn’t. Had seen the saddened look on her face when he’d unwittingly bragged to her about bedding her mistress. “She may think you come to me to compensate for a failing on her part.”

“Only the failing of mortal stamina,” Sansa said. “She tires easily after feeding and I…don’t want to pressure her…considering the life I took her away from.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “The last thing I want is to hurt her.”

Theon gripped her hands tightly in his own. “Speak with her, won’t you? I can’t fuck properly when I feel guilty.”

“Guilty,” Sansa said. “Now that’s a mortal emotion I remember well.” A cold smile cracked her lips. “And not one I miss in the slightest.”


	14. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: blood-drinking _isn't_ a one-to-one metaphor for sex, but there are still some...dub-con-y vibes here, especially concerning revoked consent, or at least the discussion of it.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Though it felt like an eternity, counting every heartbeat in between, it was hardly more than a minute or two before the icy tendrils of _being watched_ began to prick at the back of his neck. He spun, finding nobody behind him—nobody that he could _see_ , at any rate—and when he turned back to face the hallway, _he_ was there.

Robb Stark.

Like a ghost in the darkness, paler than he’d been even last night. Once, back on Pyke, Theon had seen a man’s corpse fished out of the ocean. He’d been lost at sea for over a week, and the thing they pulled out was so pale it was tinged with green, the fingers blue-black where the blood had pooled. Robb reminded him of that corpse. He was haggard, disheveled. Even his hair seemed paler than he remembered.

Theon almost took a step back, but stopped himself. “I was expecting you.”

Robb’s eyes flickered to the puddle of blood at his feet, but said nothing.

“I know you’re hurt,” Theon continued, “and that you need to feed.”

“How do you know I’m hurt?”

“You took Snow’s knife…here,” Theon said, ignoring his question. He reached out and placed his hand on the spot he’d seen in his vision. Robb looked startled, but allowed it. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Robb was silent a moment, but then shrugged off his heavy cloak and began undoing the lacing of his doublet. His hands were quick, agile, and Theon couldn’t help but imagine them on his body. He watched in fascination as Robb finally pulled the fabric open enough to reveal the expanse of marble skin beneath, and the horrid cut where his shoulder met his chest. A hideous, open wound, weeping thick blood. It looked odd, unnatural, and it took a moment for Theon to realize why. It was not inflamed, not swollen or raised as he’d seen with similar wounds. It was as if somebody had stabbed through parchment with how clean it was. Parchment, or dead skin.

Robb gritted his teeth. It seemed to pain him. “It’s not the wound…as such. I lost…a fair amount of blood.”

“You need human blood to heal it.” Theon tilted his head back, exposing his neck, the place where he’d seen the marks on Jeyne. “Take mine.” He closed his eyes and waited.

He flinched with a start when Robb took his wrist, with surprising gentleness, and brought it to his lips, like a gentleman kissing a lady’s hand. But instead, he ran his tongue along the bleeding cut on his arm. His mouth was colder than it should have been, much colder, and the sensation raised gooseflesh on Theon’s arms. It was disconcerting…but not unpleasant.

“Can you get enough…that way?” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He definitely wasn’t disappointed that Robb Stark might not have to bite him. Definitely.

Robb lapped at him, long, slow stripes down the length of the cut, and then slowly withdrew. “Your blood is like the first drink of water to a man wandering for so long in the desert.” When his eyes met Theon’s, there were black and hungry, like a predator’s. “But no. Not enough. Not like this.”

“Then take what you need…from my neck, if you want.”

Robb stared at him, unblinking. “Do you know what you’re offering?”

Theon nodded.

Robb, still gripping his wrist, pulled him closer. “Are you certain? Once I start, I may not be able to stop and…I don’t wish to hurt you.”

Theon’s throat bobbed. “I trust you.”

“You have no earthly reason to.”

“You saved my life,” he said without hesitation. “You were meant to kill me. Snow intended you should.”

“I may yet.”

Theon met his gaze. “You won’t.” He tilted his head back again.

He was surprised again when he was lifted off his feet, almost like he’d been tackled. _They_ were strong, he knew that, but it was still a shock to be carried back into the room and dropped on the bed as if he were a new bride. He found himself drowning in the featherbed mattress, and just a moment later, a weight was on top of him, pushing down on him. Cold hands cupped his face while a cold, wet tongue laved at his neck. His entire body throbbed with the need to react, but he wasn’t sure how—to fight it or pull Robb closer. In the end, he only kicked out with his legs impotently into the air.

“Please,” he begged, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets beneath him. “Do it. Do it now!”

And with that, there was a sharp, sudden pain. It raced through his veins, tingling all the way to the tips of his fingers, rolling in waves of fire and electricity. He cried out. And when he began to feel the pull against his flesh, he closed his eyes. It thrummed through him—his chest, his jaw, his groin. Everything was pins and needles. And it was…

He didn’t want it to stop.

Robb was moving over him, almost rutting into him. Theon released his grip on the sheets and grabbed the back of Robb’s head instead, fingers tangling in his hair. The teeth were gone, and all that was left were the lips sucking on his flesh. It felt like everything within him was being pulled to that spot, gushing, like a river to the sea. And perhaps it was the blood, but it seemed the mouth was growing warmer and softer the longer it went.

It went on and on, like a repeating dream he couldn’t shake loose, one he did not want to end. He dreaded the moment Robb would pull back and say, “Yes, I’ve had my fill of you.”

But the words never came. And the mouth was still pulling from his veins, and the hands were still holding his face. And it definitely wasn’t his imagination; they were warmer now. The body above him was so heavy, pushing him deeper and deeper into the mattress. The world became soft and muffled, and faraway. It felt like he was sinking. 

He let himself sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III is going to be short, like Part I, but I'm already planning Part IV. So quick question. 
> 
> How much would you like to explore of Theon's relationships with the remaining Starks (Arya, Bran, and Rickon, all appropriately aged up, of course), and on a scale of romantic to platonic, how intimate would you be interested in seeing Theon be with each respective Stark? Basically, how much sex do y'all want to see? "None at all" is a perfectly valid response, and maybe you don't mind the idea of Theon/Arya but Theon/Bran just breaks your brain too much. I'm just testing the waters here.
> 
> Thanks in advance.


	15. Chapter 15

He didn’t even realize he’d drifted away until a voice pulled him back.

“Robb, stop!”

A woman’s voice. He thought it sounded familiar, but his brain was a little fuzzy. He struggled to open his eyes. Too bad his eyelids were too heavy.

“You’re going to kill him, Robb!”

The weight on top of him rolled like a heavy wave, bringing him to the surface. He took in gulps of fresh air. It felt like he’d been under forever.

Hands cupped his face. They seemed smaller and colder than they should have been. “Easy, easy.” That voice again, and a memory fought its way up. He finally managed to force his eyes open to a vision. The porcelain doll on his mother’s shelf come to life. Somebody had given her fiery red hair. They’d forgotten to paint her lips, though, which were colorless and grey. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“San…sa.”

She blinked. “How do you know—?”

“Oh God,” a voice wailed. “Sansa, is he—did I…?”

“He lives,” she said over her shoulder. “Though if I had not arrived when I had, I doubt he would still be with us.” Her cold hand pressed against Theon’s neck. “His pulse is too fast. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I didn’t mean—Sansa, it was like—”

“I _know_ what it was like,” Sansa snarled, and for a moment Theon thought it might not be her voice at all. Too harsh, an edge to it that spoke of a dog or wolf disciplining a weaker member of the pack. But when she spoke again, her voice was calm. “You need to come down from your bloodlust, rest while you heal. How is your wound?”

“My wound? My…it’s…” There was a rustle of fabric.

“Good. Now…go.”

“But I—”

“Go, Robb. I’ll take care of the mortal. _I_ will have no trouble controlling myself.” Theon felt the rebuke in her voice, just as he had always felt it in his father’s. He flinched as he felt those cold, slender hands on his own, lifting his arm, raising it to his throat, and pressing his hand down on the dull pain on the side of his neck. He felt wet warmth between his fingers. “Press down,” she said softly, and this time he was reminded of his mother. “You’re not bleeding terribly, but Robb was not able to close the wound properly.”

“Robb,” he murmured. “‘m I…a vampire now?”

“No. You would need to have your own blood fed back to you.”

“Mmm,” he agreed, as if he’d known that. He hadn’t.

“Hold that while I get something to bandage you with.”

He started to nod, but a firm hand on his forehead stopped him. “Try not to move too much.” And then her presence was gone from his side.

He wanted to call out to bring her back, to bring Robb back. He felt alone. Terribly alone. And confused. He remembered everything, but it was all so…hazy. And like a dream, rapidly jumping from one event to the next without rhyme or reason.

She was next to him again now, pulling his hand away from his neck and replacing it with a dry pressure. He felt his throat grow tight but couldn’t seem to find the energy to panic. It wasn’t choking tight, in any case; he could still breathe. And then the same pressure on his arm.

“There,” she said, and the finality in her voice made him panic. “What you need most now is rest. I’ll—”

He clumsily reached for her as she began to pull away again. “Don’t…go.” Full sentences were difficult—full _thoughts_ were difficult.

Her eyes found his. They were the same shade as Robb’s, though her lashes were darker. “You want me to stay?”

He nodded weakly, even though she’d told him not to move too much.

She was silent for a moment, her face blank. “You’re experiencing blood-haze. I don’t think you fully appreciate that you almost died.”

“Didn’t die.” He forced his mouth into his signature smile, but it felt clumsy. “Will Robb…be alright?”

“He’ll be fine, once he’s rested. You should rest too.”

“Don’t want to be alone…Sansa.”

Her thin eyebrows creased. “How do you know my name?”

“Heard it. Saw you…in a vision.” He reached for her hair, hanging loose over her shoulders. Not the intricate style he’d seen in his vision, but he’d recognize the hue anywhere. Anyone would. She was too far away, though, and his fingers only met air. “Lovely,” was all he could say.

Her face didn’t soften a bit. “Flattery stops working on a person after the first hundred years or so.”

He tried to get the smile right again, pulling his mouth wider.

“What do you mean by ‘vision’?” she asked.

His un-bandaged hand fumbled for his locket; it was still there under his shirt. “I shouldn’t tell you.”

She pursed her lips. Then leaned it. “You can tell me.” Her voice had taken on a husky quality, and suddenly he couldn’t think of why he didn’t want her to know.

“My brother’s locket,” he answered. “It’s a mermaid pearl. It showed me a vision when I was bathing.”

“Do mermaid pearls usually have that power?”

“Not for mortals, no.” He felt he was getting better at smiling now. “I think I must have mer blood. I mean, _we_ do. The Greyjoys. From a long time ago. I always thought they were stories…”

He had thought his answer would make her happy, that he had let her in on his secret after she’d asked so nicely, but instead she was quiet. She leaned back on her haunches and sat studying him with an unreadable expression. Unreadable. They were all unreadable, everyone in this castle.

At last, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she said, “I want you to rest and recover your strength.” Then she began to stand.

“You won’t stay?”

“I have to speak with Robb.” She paused, one hand resting against the bedpost. “Rest,” she said in that husky tone.

“Alright,” he agreed sleepily, and allowed himself to sink back into the pillow, which was warm and comfortable. He was tired, and even talking was taking too much energy. But he was also sated, as if he’d just eaten a heavy meal, and so he let himself drift in that ebbing flow of consciousness.

He dreamed there were hands on his hips, sliding down his breeches. He dreamed there was a warm mouth swallowing him down, and he had to close his eyes because the pleasure of it blinded him. He dreamt of gripping red hair between his fingers and then his legs were being parted and his knees pushed back. Something was pressing at his entrance. Or a place he had never _thought of_ as his entrance before. He had never been…taken that way. The people in his village thought it was debasing. But it took a lot of energy to care what the people in his village thought, and he didn’t have any energy to spare for them at the moment. And he was empty.

“Fill me,” he murmured.

“Are you sure?” Robb Stark's voice purred.

He nodded, almost angry that he had to waste energy repeating himself. “You drained me. Now fill me up.”

The thing at his entrance began to press in, and he bit his lip in anticipation. Bit until he could taste blood in his mouth. But just as his flesh began to stretch, there was another voice in his ear. “What are you doing, Theon?” Someone else’s voice. Familiar but…very wrong. It didn’t belong here.

His eyes flew open. The face hovering over his own was not one he had expected. “Aren’t you dead?”

“What are you doing, little brother?” Rodrik asked again. “Playing whore to these monsters?”

Theon’s mind was still racing to catch up with him, but he cried out in disgust when he finally realized it was his brother on top of him. He recoiled; Rodrik’s laughter rang in his ears.

“That’s right, brother, you’re fucking a corpse, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not—I don’t—it’s not—”

“Whose blood runs through your veins!?” Rodrik roared, so loudly Theon threw his hands over his ears. “The mers whose pearl you’re wearing around your neck right now? That _I_ used to wear around _mine_? What would they say if they could see you now? What would _Father_ say?”

“Quiet!” Theon shouted, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. It felt like his eardrums were bleeding.

“You’re a disgrace! You’re a disgusting, corpse-fucking disgrace!”

He curled in on himself, trying to block out the _noise_ of it. Of his dead brother _screaming_ in his ear.

And when he woke up, drenched in sweat, his pillow and sheets were sticky and covered over in blood. And his hands were clasped tightly over his ears.


	16. Chapter 16

On the morning of his third day in the necropolis, Theon decided he needed to get out. It was like a curtain had been lifted, and he realized with sudden clarity: he’d been entranced.

How else to describe what had kept him here for three days? How else to explain why he’d not only allowed himself to be fed from, but had sought it out, begged for it even? How to explain the dreams where he acted so obviously not like himself? Since he’d set foot in this castle, and perhaps well before, his mind had clearly come under the influence of some dark sorcery.

The worst part was that it was working yet. Remembering the feeling last night as Robb’s teeth had cleaved through his flesh still sent pleasurable shudders through his body. It was wrong. Disgusting. He should not desire to be a meal, like a dog to a tick. He should not desire…

He crawled from the bed, legs trembling and weak. He felt as strong as a newborn baby, barely able to lift his head, and yet he forced himself to stand. The collar of his shirt stuck to his skin, stiff with dried blood. Someone had left him another change of clothes, but he ignored it. He hated the thought that someone had been in here while he’d been asleep, _again_ , and anyway he didn’t have time for that. He was more concerned about his bare feet and how far he could potentially get without his boots, to say nothing of his missing pistol.

Regardless, he couldn’t spend one more second in this castle. That dream…Rodrik had come back to warn him, to momentarily snap him out of his entrancement. He was certain of it.

A quick glance out the window told him the sun had risen some time ago, which meant Robb and Sansa would be asleep in the crypts. Jon might well be up and about, and though Jon was far more of an unknown than even the other two—could he do that thing with his voice, as the others had, for instance?—Theon still favored his chances of one over two.

He crept to the door—or rather, stumbled. He was so weak, “creeping” put him off balance, and so he more staggered like a drunk to the door and paused, leaning heavily on the handle to catch his breath. In this state, Jeyne might very well be able to overpower him. He couldn’t think like that, though.

The door opened silently, to his relief. The hallway outside was empty. So far, so good. Using the wall for support, he “crept” out into the hall. He felt like a cat slinking along a back alley. The stones were uneven, but smooth from many, many years. Their coolness, and the drying sweat on his body, gave him shivers. His breath came raggedly, despite his best efforts to hold it. Every noise thundered in his ears.

He was hyper-aware that he didn’t actually know where he was going. Over the last three days, he’d only left the room to bathe. His hand went for the locket again, reassured at feeling its shape beneath his shirt. Perhaps it would help him again, show him some vision. Did it only work in water? What had he been thinking, staying here? He had to return the locket to his mother. It was the only reason he’d come here. He hated that he’d allowed himself to become distracted.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, and his energy didn’t. He was winded and shaking by the time he finally reached a flight of stairs, a winding staircase leading down. His bare feet were cold to the point of numbness and had trouble finding the steps. But he managed, pressing his back to the curving wall, stumbling down the last few.

Then he was on a flat floor again, leading to another hallway, though this one was wider than the one of the floor above. Wide with high ceilings held aloft by arches and pillars and recessed alcoves with carved images of scowling, demonic faces—gargoyles. A draft whispered across his skin, and for a moment it almost felt like someone behind him, breathing gently on the back of his neck. He turned to make sure there was nobody there. There wasn’t.

Nerves on high alert, he began walking again.

Up ahead and off to the right was a doorway, left slightly ajar. Hesitantly, Theon approached. There was no sound within, nothing he could discern at least, and so he peered in through the crack. Within was a receiving room of some kind, with a grand chandelier and a fireplace with a portrait over the mantle: a redheaded woman who bore a striking resemblance to Sansa seated in a chair, a man with a passing resemblance to Jon standing to her right, hand on her shoulder, dressed in finery that had not been in style when his grandfather was a young boy. There was something very eerie about those figures, staring dispassionately at him from ages past, judging him. He pulled back and kept searching for an exit.

He had not taken more than a few steps when he heard the telltale echo of voices off of stone. His heart jumped up into his throat and he darted behind one of the pillars. He willed himself to stop breathing as the voices drew nearer, accompanied by the clicking of thick-heeled boots.

“A siren, you say?” This was a man’s voice, though not one Theon recognized.

“Lady Sansa suspects he is.” This voice he did recognize.

He peered around the pillar to see Jeyne, dressed in her usual high-collared dress. At her side strode a young man with chestnut hair. And despite not recognizing his voice, Theon recognized his face. He was Patrek Mallister, the man who’d originally drawn him to the godforsaken castle.

“Then Robb’s dreams…”

“The timing seems too perfect to be coincidence,” Jeyne said. “If Lady Sansa is correct, Robb has already fallen under his spell.”

Spell?

“Do you think Lady Sansa is correct?” Mallister asked, and the footsteps came to a stop as he turned to Jeyne. They were very close to where Theon was hiding. “Do you think this stranger has enchanted our masters?”

Stranger? Surely they weren’t speaking of _him_?

“I don’t know…” Jeyne tugged at her collar, adjusting it. “He doesn’t seem evil to me. Or if he is, he’s remarkable at acting like a perfectly confused human.”

“It’s possible he doesn’t know. Or didn’t. Do you suppose Ramsay suspected what he was?”

Jeyne’s voice fell to a whisper. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

Theon was certain they would hear his heart over the silence that followed. They _were_ speaking of him, but he hadn’t any idea what all this talk of spells and enchantment was about. They thought he was a siren? Because of the vision he’d been shown? The pearl had shown him that; it’d had nothing to do with him. Clearly _he_ was the one being entranced here.

“I should see if he’s awake,” Jeyne said to break the silence. “If Robb drained him as much as Lady Sansa says, he’ll be very weak and need to eat.”

“In that case, I won’t keep you,” Mallister replied, and their footsteps picked up again, much to Theon’s relief. “Personally, the whole ‘draining’ things makes my balls want to climb into my belly. I don’t know how you dolls do it.”

“Thank you for that lovely image, Patrek,” Jeyne said with the same dryness she’d used to tell Theon she was not a servant. “If you really don’t understand, then it’s not something I can explain.”

She started for the stairs, the ones Theon had come down, but Mallister grabbed her arm. “Be careful, would you? If he is a siren…”

“I don’t think he’ll hurt me,” she replied, “even if he’s in any state to. But your concern is appreciated.”

And with that, they parted ways. Theon remained pressed against the pillar until their footsteps had completely faded away. Then he gave the hallway another check in both directions before moving along.

There was a two-way bend in the hall where Jeyne and Mallister had entered from. He thought they’d probably come from the right, from their footsteps. But would that lead to an exit or simply deeper into the castle? He went left, leaning more heavily on the walls as he went. It felt as if he’d been running for hours with no rest. His heart beat rapidly and his lungs couldn’t seem to fill. The world was off-kilter, which made putting one foot in front of the other difficult. He was overextending himself and knew it, but he needed to be rid of this place. He needed to banish this entrancement that had taken hold of him.

There was another door up ahead. Wood. High enough and wide enough to be an entrance. And the closer he stumbled to it, the more he was certain it was—the fine draft seeping in through the gap at the bottom, the smell of fresh air. He gathered up his energy and threw himself at it, grasping the brass handle of the left door in triumph.

To his surprise, the door gave way outwards, opening smoothly to reveal daylight, an open courtyard, and a very startled-looking Jon on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in Part III (told you it would be short again, but at least it'll be a longer-ish chapter).


	17. Chapter 17

Jon blinked, one arm raised to grab the door handle from the outside.

Somewhere between instinct and last resort, Theon ducked under Jon’s arm and tried to slip away. He knew it wouldn’t work, and sure enough, in the flash of an eye, Jon had grabbed hold of his shoulder and slammed him against the door. Apparently harder than he’d intended, because his grip immediately loosened as he took the scene in.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“You were right. I should have left yesterday.”

“So you’ve decided to leave now? In the condition you’re in?”

Theon’s face burned with shame. Jon had tried to warn him, multiple times, but he hadn’t listened. His mind had been too clouded with whatever dark spell he’d been put under.

“You wanted me gone, didn’t you?” he mumbled, almost unable to speak through his humiliation.

“I also didn’t want to be the cause of your death.”

“You said you would arrange for me to get back to the village.” He forced his eyes up to meet Jon’s. “Is your offer still available?”

Jon hesitated. “Alright,” he said at last. “But you must be patient while I get everything together.” He gave Theon an up-and-down look, lingering on his bare feet. “At least let me get you some shoes.”

***

Jon led Theon back to the receiving room he’d passed by earlier and had him sit in one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace while he started the fire. Theon wanted to tell him not to make such a fuss, that he really didn’t want to linger here any longer than necessary. But Jon wouldn’t have any of it.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he mumbled as the fire spat to life. Jon rose and paused just long enough to drape a woolen blanket over Theon’s shoulders before skulking off out of sight. “You will have a harder time keeping yourself warm, especially yours hands and feet.”

Theon pulled the blanket close. Did Jon know what had happened last night? Obviously he did, but did he know the specifics? That Theon had…?

Jon returned with a pan of water, which he heated over the fire for a few minutes before setting down in front of Theon. “Before your toes turn blue and fall off,” he explained.

The water was far from boiling, and yet it burned against his cold feet. Feeling returned in a rushing wave; he’d not realized how cold he’d been, wandering the castle in his bare feet. After the initial shock, it was quite nice. Soothing even.

Theon couldn’t allow himself to be soothed. “My boots.”

“I’ll fetch them,” Jon said stiffly, rising to his feet. “And your coat.”

“And my pistol.”

Again he hesitated. “That too. If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back shortly.” He turned to leave. “If you take it in your mind to leave before I return…well, I won’t stop you, but I highly advise against it. Not that anyone takes my advice around here,” he added under his breath, and then he was gone, leaving Theon alone with only the crackling fire and the portrait above the mantle.

Theon stared up at it, trying to determine who they might be. A former lord and lady of the castle, no doubt. Had they been dead too? Were they still here, wandering the halls at night?

Completely of its own mind, his hand strayed to his throat. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, and he pulled it away. The skin beneath prickled in the cool air. Still watching the portrait, wondering about it, he ran his fingers along his neck, expecting the area to be tender to the touch, but it wasn’t. He felt no discomfort as he ran his fingers over the two indents, imagining the teeth that had made them. He must look like Jeyne now.

He shouldn’t like the thought at all.

He pulled his eyes away from the painting, to the floor beneath his feet. The carpeting was quite fine and detailed, though he must not have been the first person to sit here with his feet in a water basin, because he could just make out the signs of damage of past spills, slightly darkening the immaculate threadwork.

A thought came to him. A thought that felt enough like his own, but who knew? He checked over his shoulder. There was no sign of Jon, and it might take him a while to gather together everything he needed to make it back to the village—including rations and a horse. If he was to be stuck here, then so be it.

His hand slid down his neck to the rough bit of lanyard keeping the locket safely hidden under his shirt. He pulled it off and over his head, and sat studying it for a moment or two before dropping it into the steaming basin at his feet. The metal of the clasp was cool against his toes for barely an instant, and then became very warm again, like it had in the bath. He sank back in his seat and waited to see what the water would show him.

One minute.

Two.

Nothing was happening. No visions were coming to him. He sat up again and leaned down to study the locket, wondering if he’d done something wrong. Did he need to wear it around his neck, so that it was close to his heart? Did he need to have his head underwater? As he leaned in closer, something warm slid down his throat, and a moment later, a single drop of red blossomed in the water. He slapped his hand over his neck and found it was wet where Robb Stark had bitten him; the wound had been closed only a very brief moment ago.

But as the blood began to spread in the bowl, he felt a sudden heaviness, as if a great weight were pushing down on him from above. It felt like he’d stood too quickly, except he was still seated. He collapsed backwards in the chair and his eyes rolled up in his head.

This room had mostly been dry, but there was still water that remembered the ages—in wine stains, in puddles tracked in on muddy boots, in the mold and mildew that clung behind aging curtains and portraits and bookcases. There were voices speaking, but Theon couldn’t tell from how long ago, or even if they were all speaking with each other. They seemed to be snippets of conversations past.

“—been missing for years. Nobody knows where she—”

“—making a mistake. It’s not too late to undo—”

“—love her, Mother. Why can’t you—?”

“—the only thing I’ve _ever_ wanted—”

“—should be there to give away his daughter on her wedding day—”

“—thought you were dead, Lyanna. Nobody’s heard from you in—”

None of it made any sense to him, fading in and out, like a train rapidly approaching and then speeding away. His eyes shot open and he saw a vision: Sansa, warming her hands by the fire, her red hair alight from the glow of the flames. She turned. “Were you having a vision?”

And with a start he realized that she was no vision at all, but actually there with him in the room. He scrambled back into his chair and pulled the blanket tight about him, whatever pathetic protection it could offer.

Sansa stood. “You’re leaving?”

He forced himself to nod. “I’ve…been trouble for you.”

Her lips pressed together. “A bit.”

“I didn’t put a spell on Robb.”

She made a noncommittal noise, a parent who did not for one second believe their child’s outrageous lie, and came forward. Beneath her billowing skirts, she seemed to glide. “Sirens are known for weaving dream-spells.”

“I’m not a siren. The visions…the visions were because of the mermaid’s pearl.” He reached down and snatched up the locket, splashing water across the carpet. He didn’t apologize as he slipped the lanyard over his neck again.

“Perhaps that’s part of it.” Her blue eyes flickered to the basin, the remaining water now a slight pink from his blood. “Do you remember last night?”

“I remember that _you_ put a spell on _me_ to make me tell you something I wish I hadn’t.”

Her face remained impassive. “I did use my voice on you. We brought you into our home and you were keeping secrets from us. Potentially very dangerous secrets. _I_ protect this household, Theon Greyjoy. Its well-being is _my_ purview, and I do not take lightly anything which threatens that well-being.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone in your household,” Theon said. “I just want to take my family’s heirloom and leave.”

“That’s not what you wanted last night.”

He glowered at her. Was she mocking him? “What are you doing up and about in the daytime anyway? I thought daylight was fatal to your kind.”

“There’s no daylight in this room, is there?” She motioned about the receiving room, and indeed there were no windows to let light in. “I am weakened during the day, it’s true, but so long as I stay cloistered away from the sun, I may go where I please.”

“You would do well in my village, then,” Theon said. “The sun hardly comes out at all.”

She brushed her hand against her cheek, an odd gesture Theon couldn’t quite read. “I haven’t felt the sun on my skin in three hundred years.”

“You’re that old?”

Her lips turned into an impish grin. “I don’t look it, do I?”

“How did you become a vampire?” He hadn’t meant to ask that. The question had simply popped into his head and out of his mouth. He wondered if it was frowned upon to ask such things among their kind.

She didn’t seem offended, though. “Would you like to know? I’m not sure it’s entirely my story to tell.”

“Are you going to keep me from leaving?” he said leaning forward, because that what he should have asked instead.

“I’m not certain,” she responded. “I don’t know the nature of the spell you’ve put on Robb, if it will be broken upon your leaving, or if it will linger after you’re gone.”

“I’ve put no spell on him!”

“So you say.” She placed a hand on the arm of his chair, tracing her finger up and down the fabric. “At this moment, I’m inclined to keep you here, simply because you will never make it to the village with your current health. Though if you were to die on your journey, it would certainly solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Robb’s the one who’s put a spell on me.” Theon jabbed his finger at her. “You all have. You’ve been putting… _thoughts_ in my head. Unnatural thoughts and desires. Dreams.”

Sansa fixed him with a calm stare. “Nobody in this castle has the ability to do that.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust you,” he muttered.

“That’s fair,” she said, catching him by surprise at the change of topic. “You have no way of compelling the truth from us the way we’ve done to you. I do, however, think it’s much more likely these dreams are coming from you and that you are somehow, perhaps inadvertently, sending them to Robb.”

“No.” Theon shook his head. “No, that can’t be. I can’t—I’m not—I shouldn’t…” He didn’t even know what to say, too humiliated to put it into thoughts, let alone voice it to the world. He hated it. Hated how strong it still was, the desire to give himself to them. To Robb. It wasn’t him. It _wasn’t_.

“I won’t stop you leaving,” she said abruptly, “though I will advise against it. I think you should rest and recoup your strength. No matter my thoughts on the subject, Robb would be torn to shreds if you were to die because of his actions last night.”

Theon lifted his head. He knew Robb had not meant to kill him. Of all his concerns, that was the least, though it probably should have been the greatest. His chief concern was that even after almost dying, he couldn’t regret giving himself over to Robb.

“How is he?”

“He’ll be fully healed by dusk,” she answered.

“Do you think…that is…?” He itched nervously at his arm.

“You want to see him again,” she stated. Not a question.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think it would be wise,” she agreed. “But it’s not my decision.” She spun, her skirts fanning about her with the movement, and glided a few paces, her back facing to him. She seemed to be deep in thought. “No, it’s hardly my decision. In fact, there’s probably no point in even trying to stop the inevitable. The most I could do is delay it.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Should I take you to him now? Would you prefer that?”

Theon had to admit he was surprised by—and a bit suspicious of—her sudden turn. Take him to Robb? Now? How to answer that?

His thoughts were a jumble. Rodrik’s warning still clung to the forefront of his mind. If his brother hadn’t reached out to him from beyond the grave, he would still be languishing in this haze that had gripped him. He _wanted_ to see Robb again. Worse, he _wanted_ to feel the things he’d felt last night. He could still remember the teeth piercing his flesh, the lips pulling his blood from his veins, the weight on top his body and the hands holding him so gently.

“Well?” Sansa arched an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Theon said. The woolen blanket fell away from his shoulders as he stood. “I want to see Robb again.” One more time. Just one. Before he left, and demand that he take this spell off of him forthwith.

Sansa nodded as if she’d never doubted it. “This way.” She motioned with her chin and glided to the fireplace, where she took a candle from a sconce on the wall and lit it in the flames. She placed a slender hand on one of the pillars holding up the mantel and, seemingly without any effort, pushed it back. It slid into the wall with the grinding of ancient stones, revealing a hidden, winding staircase.

A cold gust of wind hit him like death’s breath, and he shivered. “What did you mean just now,” he asked, “about ‘the inevitable’?”

“Robb does as he will,” she responded, “and damn the consequences. I’ve only known you for less than a day, but my measure of you is that you are dangerously similar.” She began to slink down the steps, not even bothering to check if he was following after her. He was. “I love Robb dearly. He is my brother, and I will kill anyone who tries to harm him, no matter what promise I’ve made to Jon. But he is also the one who turned me into the creature that stands before you now, and even after three hundred years, I’ve never completely forgiven him for it.”

END PART III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have no idea when I'll be posting Part IV, but it probably _won't_ be next week, since I'll be out of town, so we're looking at probably the first week of October. I'll try to post the interlude earlier though.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	18. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little different for Arya's interlude. NSFW content ahead.

Jon never had any interest in watching him undress. He was already stretched out on the bed, on his stomach, by the time Theon had unbuttoned his shirt, and that was always the signal that he was in…whatever space he was in while they did this. Theon paused to study him, the hard lines of his back, the swell of his ass. With a sigh, he removed his breeches and made his way to the mattress, where a man who normally didn’t want anything to do with him wanted him to play the role of someone else.

Not today.

He crawled onto the mattress, but instead of covering Jon’s bare body with his own, he nudged the other man with his knee. When Jon looked up in confusion, Theon took the opportunity to flip him onto his back, and then climbed on top of him, straddling him.

Jon stared up in bewilderment, and not a little bit of annoyance. “What are you doing, Greyjoy?”

“I want to look at your face this time,” Theon answered. Jon opened his mouth to say something, but Theon cut him off. “ _I_ want to look at your face. If _you_ don’t want to look at _mine_ , you know where the door is.”

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed, and Theon could tell he was weighing his options. Perhaps trying to parse Theon’s motives.

“I’m going to start,” Theon announced. “If you’d rather not fuck at all than see my face, just tell me. But tell me to my face. Now.”

Jon’s jaw tensed, but then his body relaxed and he gave a small nod. “Do it then.”

Theon nodded in return. He reached over to the nightstand next to the bed and dipped his fingers into the container of oil, coating his hand liberally. Jon quickly became fully hard as Theon ran his hand up and down his shaft, though the confusion on his face didn’t abate at all. He even showed a bit of alarm as Theon lifted himself up and began to slowly lower himself down.

“Wait!” He grabbed Theon’s hips. “You can’t—without—”

“I can’t take it the way a damphir can,” Theon agreed with a wink. “That’s why I prepared myself ahead of time.” He paused, the head of Jon’s dick pressing against his entrance. “Is this…are you alright with this?”

Jon scowled. “What’s your game, Greyjoy?”

“Theon,” he corrected, and leaned in to brush his lips against Jon’s. He couldn’t remember the last time they had kissed. Jon tensed and didn’t exactly give into it, but neither did he push Theon away, fling him across the room. He let his hands fall away from Theon’s hips, which Theon took as permission to continue. So he did.

Jon was not as big as Robb, though wider, and the burn as he entered more pronounced. Still, nothing Theon couldn’t handle, and he bore down, feeling immense satisfaction as the head popped through the initial resistance. Even better was the look on Jon’s face, the way his lips parted and his eyes almost rolled back. The way his dark hair fanned out on the pillow as he threw his head back. A low moan escaped from deep in his throat.

“Enjoying this?”

“Don’t talk,” Jon muttered.

“No.” Theon sank all the way down and paused to get used to the feeling of Jon seated fully inside him. “I’m going to talk as much as I want, and if you don’t want to hear it, you’ll just have to go back to your own room. But then you’ll miss out on this.” He lifted himself again, almost all the way off, enough that the tight muscles of his entrance hugged the head of Jon’s cock. Then he slid back down, with agonizing slowness, enjoying every inch of Jon stretching him from inside.

And he didn’t seem to be the only one enjoying it. Jon’s breath rushed out, and his hands scrambled in the sheets beneath him. “God.”

Theon grinned down at him. “Thank you, but Theon will do.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I need it,” he answered, letting his hands wander over Jon’s chest. “Because _you_ need it.”

“How do _you_ know what I need?”

“Because I’m just that good.” Theon began setting a pace, riding Jon as he would a horse. Jon threw his head back, exposing the long column of his neck, and Theon didn’t touch it. Not a kiss, not a lick. Instead, he picked up speed, and Jon began to moan as if he was in pain. Theon had known him for too long, though. And, miraculously, Jon didn’t complain again, just making those breathy, gaspy, moany sounds, occasionally muttering “God,” occasionally screaming it.

It didn’t take terribly long for him to spend, filling Theon up from the inside. He collapsed back into the mattress with a strangled cry, hair slicked to his forehead with sweat. He lay there, breathing heavily, staring up at Theon as if seeing him for the first time.

Theon brushed his hair back, then leaned down and kissed him again. This time Jon returned it, opening his mouth to let Theon’s tongue in. Theon had almost forgotten what a human mouth tasted like, one that had not tasted human blood recently. When he pulled away, both of them were breathless.

“Did you enjoy that?”

Jon nodded, wordlessly.

“Good.”

They dressed in silence. Jon refused to look at him, quickly averting his gaze whenever their eyes met. His movements were not hurried, but there was a certain restlessness to them, the way he primly buttoned his shirt, the way he combed his fingers through his hair though it did nothing for his disheveled look. When he was done and presentable, he turned and gave Theon a single second-long glance and a “Thank you,” with the same formality he’d always used. And then he was gone again, the only trace of him what he had left on the sheets and inside Theon.

With a sigh, Theon sat on the bed. He was still a bit winded, and his ass was sore, though not terribly so. Not unpleasantly so. Sweat clung to his skin, and Jon’s seed still clung to his insides; he could feel it seeping out and cooling but could not yet find the energy to deal with it. A moment. He just needed a moment.

It was as he sat there, regaining his breath, that he became aware of a presence in the room with him. Something subtler than being watched. More like the shift of a slight breeze. He turned. “How long have you been sitting there, you pervert?”

“I only came in a moment ago,” Arya answered as she sharpened her dagger. “I’m not interested in watching my brother fuck.”

Jon was not her brother, but he didn’t correct her. He’d be wrong anyway.

“Did you take my advice?” she asked casually.

He nodded.

She nodded as if she’d known. She could probably smell it on him, anyway. “How did it go?”

“Well, he did _not_ walk out.”

“I told you,” she said in a slightly smug tone. Of all the Starks, she was easily the most petty. And that made her the most human sometimes.

“I think I might have frightened him.”

“It’s not _you_ he’s frightened of.” She set her blade down on her knee. Ever since he’d known her, she’d always worn men’s clothes. No voluminous skirts for the younger Stark sister. And yet she had an aristocratic bearing to her, not dissimilar to Sansa. She held her head high, wore her hair tied back tight, which accentuated the long shape of her face. And she spoke with candor, though she was not so careful with her words sometimes. “Look at this ridiculous charade he’s dragged you into, and for how long.”

“He dragged me into nothing,” Theon argued. “I’ve always gone along.”

“You’re an enabler,” she agreed, “but now you’ve given him the push he needs.”

“The push he needs?”

She shrugged. “Maybe you did frighten him off. Maybe he can’t face what’s behind this elaborate charade of his. He will either come back to fuck you or he will not. But either way…” No matter whether she had just fed or had not eaten in a month, the predatory glint in her eye never vanished. Never since he’d known her. “You won’t have to be the mask he hides his fears behind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect to start posting Part IV early next week.


	19. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just putting the finishing touches on Part IV today and tomorrow. But in the meantime, let's get back to posting.

The way was dark. Sansa’s candle illuminated her face with its pale glow, but not much else. It was the only guide Theon had as he followed behind her. Stumbled. It took almost no time to lose feeling in his feet again. One missed step sent him tumbling forward into her.

She spun around and grabbed his upper arm, steadying him. He was startled by her effortless strength. “You can hold onto me if you need to,” she said levelly.

Though her voice offered no judgment either way, he could practically hear Rodrik laughing in his ear. “Leaning on a woman, little Theon? You really are weak, aren’t you?”

He shook his head and forced himself back to his own feet. “I’ll manage, thank you.”

Sansa didn’t press the issue, though she did slow her pace to accommodate him. Neither said anything as they descended into the bowels of the castle.

The dry stones grew damper the farther they went, slick with moss that threatened to take his feet out from under him. It was with no small bit of relief that the stairs ended and the ground became flat again, if no less slippery. The sound of dripping water came to his ears. He had a different appreciation for it now, just how many years it had taken the water to seep down here. His toes were numb, but he could still feel the sloshing as he stepped through a shallow puddle. Perhaps it was the very puddle he’d watched his vision through yesterday.

He couldn’t see anything beyond Sansa’s candle, but he knew there was a corridor stretching before them. Sansa paused and lifted her light, and the flame caught on a sconce on the wall. “We don’t usually keep these lit. We see better in the dark.” Her voice echoed down the hall. “This way.”

Every so often, she would stop to light another sconce, illuminating rows of carved arches leading to recesses, where dour statues stood watching mournfully over raised stone tables. Sarcophagi, Theon thought, and was reminded uncomfortably of the altar in the woods. After passing five of these arches, all with the same sarcophagus but intricately different statues, they came upon the first coffin.

Rationally, Theon knew he should be startled to see it lying out on the stone table, as if in preparation for a wake. But perhaps, rationally, he shouldn’t. Robb had said he slept in a coffin. It did strike him, though, that they truly were…dead. The black lacquered lid of this coffin was closed, a blazoned image of a silver raven to accompany the silver trim and handles.

Sansa passed by with only the briefest of glances.

More coffins came after that. The next one was open, but thankfully empty. The lid, leaned against the sarcophagus, had a _memento mori_ emblazoned in silver. The next coffin was again open and empty, the lid bearing the image of a bird—perhaps a sparrow or some such, Theon could not tell.

The one Sansa came to a stop in front of was again closed. She set the candle on the sarcophagus and ran her hands along the silver wolf on the coffin’s lid before giving it a swift rap. “Robb, dear, there’s someone to see you.”

A moment passed and nothing happened.

“Is he asleep?” Theon asked. “I don’t want to bothe—”

He jumped as the lid began to rattle. Then, with a slow creak, lifted, and a hand emerged.

“Normally he would be sleeping too deeply for me to wake,” Sansa said. “But your blood seems to have…” She paused, as if considering the right word. “Reinvigorated him. I would not have brought you down here if he were not fit to be bothered.”

The coffin’s lid began to rise, and Theon’s heart seized. He felt lightheaded, like he might swoon. Somehow he managed to keep on his feet as the lid swung outwards, revealing the figure within, surrounded by white satin.

Robb looked as he were alive—or at least had died only a few hours ago. His skin was no longer ghostly pale, but rosy, the beds of his fingernails pink where last night they had been grey, his lips full and red as they parted slightly. Even his eyes seemed more alive as they roved from Sansa to finally land on Theon.

Somewhere off down the hall, water dripped.

Robb sat up. “You are…well?”

Why did the first words out of his mouth have to be ones of concern? Theon had come down here to confront Robb, to demand he dissipate whatever spell he’d conjured. But seeing the look of genuine concern on the dead man’s face…he felt his resolve fading.

“I am,” he answered simply.

“Will you forgive me? I did not mean…” He seemed unable to finish and averted his eyes.

“You warned me,” Theon said. And he had. As much as Theon knew there were forces at work to make him act so unlike himself, he couldn’t deny that Robb _had_ warned him.

“Yes, but I should have been—normally I _am_ able to control myself. My conduct was not…gentlemanly.”

Sansa made a noise, almost like a scoff, but said nothing. Instead she offered her hand, which Robb took, and with her help, he climbed from his coffin.

“Are _you_ well?” Theon asked. “At least I would like to know that my blood was not wasted.”

“No, that it was not.” Robb reached for his doublet again. It seemed that between last night and this very moment, he had not gotten around to lacing it back up, and so it was easy for him to pull it open. The gaping cut on his chest was now but a thin line, as puffy and red as any such wound Theon had seen on a living man.

Theon breathed, and his traitorous hand reached out to touch. Luckily, he caught himself quickly and pulled his hand back.

“You can touch, if you wish.” Robb took hold of his wrist, so gently, and guided it to his chest. The flesh was warm to his touch, and he felt the beating of the man’s heart beneath his fingertips. “It’s your blood making my heart pump.”

“That’s…remarkable,” Theon said.

“You’re remarkable.” He felt a hand on his chin, lifting his gaze up. His eyes met Robb’s, staring so intently at him and into him. The predator was gone, but not the hunger. Not entirely. Theon’s stomach thrilled. “You are more beautiful than I dreamed.”

“Dreamed?” Perhaps an odd turn of phrase. He couldn’t mean…

“I couldn’t see you,” Robb said, “but I feel you, and hear you. It was _your_ voice, calling to me.”

Theon shook his head. “I don’t…what are you talking about?”

“The dreams,” Robb said. “Or are they visions? I don’t know. I just know it was you that I felt and heard, and you are all I have been able to think about since they began.” He leaned in, and Theon had a sudden premonition. Not one born of magic or sorcery, but because he’d been here before, many times. Though usually he was the one to initiate.

“No.” He pulled back from Robb’s kiss, felt his back pressed against the sloping stone wall of the alcove. “That’s not…I came here to—I’ve sought you out to make this stop.”

Robb pulled back as well, looking startled. “Make what stop?”

“ _This_ ,” Theon hissed. “This… _spell_ you’ve put me under.”

“What sp—?”

“Don’t deny it!” Theon snapped. There was no room for him back up any more, so he stood there, fists clenched at his sides as he looked from Robb to Sansa, who continued to say nothing as she watched them through heavily lidded eyes. “You have—both of you have—been putting _thoughts_ in my head.”

“What thoughts?” Robb asked.

Sansa lifted her chin. “Yes, tell him what thoughts he’s supposed to have put in your head.”

“Thoughts about…doing what you wish for me to do,” Theon said.

“Ah,” Robb said in understanding. “You mean when I compelled you to sleep, when we first met after my confrontation with Ramsay.”

“You _compelled_ me to do more than that.”

Robb took a step towards him. “You were frightened and wounded. I thought it the best way to keep any more harm from coming to you.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Theon snarled, though he knew, and they knew, it was the empty blustering of a cornered animal. He had no way of keeping either one of them at bay. Still, Robb did stop. “You…you told me not to be afraid, and I wasn’t.”

Robb raised his arms—supplicating? “Was that such a terrible thing?”

“How can I trust what thoughts are my own?”

To his surprise, Robb smiled. The same smile he’d given him not too long ago, a good-natured smile that spoke of human warmth beneath the corpse’s exterior. “That’s simple. Do these thoughts trouble you?”

Theon nodded warily.

“Then they are your own,” Robb said with finality. “I would not put troubling thoughts in your head. Not if I truly intended to lull you into a false sense of security.”

He reached out one of his raised hands, as if offering for Theon to take it. Of course Theon did not take it. The stones dug deeper into his back as he pressed harder against them, wishing he could turn into water again and sink through their cracks. There was a terrifying logic to what Robb had just said.

“No,” he said. “Maybe you wanted me docile and complacent, but I broke through your spell. Rodrik helped me, made me see what you were doing.”

“I could make you docile and complacent right now,” Robb said, “with a word. It’s tempting, because I do not like to see you so frightened, but I know you would not appreciate it.”

“No, you’re lying.” Theon shook his head wildly. “You’re lying and you’re trying to trick me. I won’t—I can’t—” He pushed off from the wall and ran. Ran down the corridor with the lighted sconces. Neither Robb nor Sansa tried to stop him, or even follow him. It was only his own footsteps splashing through puddles, his own breath raggedly filling the silence. Just him. All him. And that made him run all the faster.


	20. Chapter 20

Theon heard footsteps from his hiding spot, wedged between the sarcophagus and the wall. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Thank you?” Robb repeated.

“Am I right in thinking that I wouldn’t hear you approaching unless you wanted to be heard?”

A slight hesitation. “You’re right. I didn’t wish to startle you.”

Theon felt a shadow fall over him, but didn’t look up, just continued to hug his knees to his chest. He felt like a child again, hiding from Rodrik and Maron.

“Did you perhaps mean to flee the castle and instead get lost in the catacombs?”

“No,” Theon replied listlessly.

His skin prickled as the shadow sank down beside him, and he caught a glimpse of Robb’s red hair out of the corner of his eye, though he refused to turn to face him. “The smell of fear doesn’t suit you, and yet I sense…it is not _us_ that frightens you.”

“I’m afraid…because I’m _not_ afraid of you,” Theon admitted, out loud for the first time. “I’m afraid that you truly haven’t put a spell on me, and that these thoughts and feelings…” He bit down on his lip. Then, summoning his meager courage, turned to finally face Robb, only to be met with understanding eyes. He almost balked under the weight of it, but held strong. “Would you tell me that you’ve bewitched me to want you?”

Robb was silent, but Theon read the truth in those deep, understanding eyes.

“I see,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against his knees. “Then it _is_ my own weakness.”

“If you consider that weakness,” Robb scoffed, “what must you think of me? I nearly killed you with my inability to control myself.” The back of a hand brushed gently against Theon’s cheek, and he turned his head to see Robb’s eyes fixated on his neck. “I didn’t even properly close the wound.” He leaned in, just slightly. “May I now?”

Theon nodded. There wasn’t any use in fighting it anymore.

Strong hands found his shoulders and turned him, pulled him away from the cold stone of the sarcophagus. There was no desperate need in Robb’s face, not like there had been last night, at least. Just concern, softness, and that ever-present understanding. Slowly, Robb released his hold on Theon’s shoulders, and Theon thought he might topple over from lack of support. He felt boneless and exhausted, but most importantly, the _desire_ to keep upright was gone. In the end, it didn’t make any difference, because there was now a weight in his lap, coaxing him to lean back, while a solid arm wrapped around his waist.

Robb’s lips found his neck, and it surprised him how warm they were now. The tongue that lapped against his skin was blazingly hot. It felt nice…amazing. He could admit that, at least. Theon let the tension flow from his body, melting in Robb’s embrace. He rested his hands against Robb’s chest and felt the heart beating within.

He whined when Robb pulled back after only a few seconds. He tangled his fingers in the fabric of Robb’s doublet to keep him there. “More.”

“I stopped it bleeding,” Robb whispered in his ear. It was eerie, the way no breath ghosted against his skin. “It will heal cleanly now.”

“No scars?”

“No scars.”

Theon knew he should feel relieved, but he felt only disappointment. “Jeyne has scars on her neck.”

“Because she is a blood doll. She wears her scars to show she is bound to my sister.”

He made it sound like a mark of servitude. Or perhaps more a badge of honor.

“I’ve been dreaming of you,” Theon said, so quietly he was sure it would be lost to a mortal man’s ear. But Robb was no mortal man. “It’s just as you say. I hear your voice and feel your hands on my…” His face grew warm. “It’s not something I would… It’s not natural.”

“We were destined to meet,” Robb said, pulling back just enough that Theon could look into his eyes once again. “These dreams pulled us together. I know this because I haven’t dreamed in three hundred years.”

“Truly?” Theon asked in surprise.

“I thought I had forgotten how. And then you…” He played with a lock of Theon’s hair. “I had forgotten how pleasant it is to dream.”

“When the dreams are pleasant,” Theon corrected. He’d had more than his share of nightmares.

But Robb’s revelation made him uneasy. Because if those strange dreams had _not_ come from Robb, then perhaps they truly had come from his own mind, his own unnatural desires he’d never allowed near the surface but had been pushing down for years. Perhaps it was as Sansa suspected: he was a siren.

He didn’t want to think on it anymore. Didn’t want to disturb those waters anymore. Let it stay sunken at the bottom of his mind.

“Your thoughts are troubling you again.” Robb ran the pad of his thumb over Theon’s bottom lip. “I do not like to see you troubled.”

“What do you want from me?” Theon breathed.

“Hmm?”

“If you’re not entrancing me, why are you being so…?” He ran his hand over Robb’s chest. “You want my blood, of course, but you could have just taken that.”

“No, you were— _are_ under my care. We do not hurt guests.”

_< <We follow your rules, Jon. In turn, I ask that you respect ours.>>_

They had a definite code of conduct, though Theon was having trouble parsing it. Jeyne had said they viewed humans as animals, to slaughter or keep as their companions as they saw fit. And yet they respected things like guest rights and loyalty. How much did they remember of being human, being alive?

“How did you become a vampire?”

Robb’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Is that too forward of me?” Theon asked.

Robb sat up straight, and Theon wished he hadn’t asked at all. He wouldn’t mind Robb staying where he was, his weight pressing into Theon from the front, his arms supporting him from the back. “I would rather not…” He ran a hand over his face.

“You don’t want to speak of it,” Theon said. “I understand.”

“I’d rather you not know,” Robb said. “You would…think poorly of me.”

“I don’t think poorly of you,” Theon said, though just a few minutes ago he had accused Robb of keeping him under an insidious spell. “Does it have to do with you turning Sansa?”

He looked up sharply. “What has she told you?”

“Only that,” Theon answered. “And that you should be the one to tell it.”

Robb ran his hand through his hair and shook his head ruefully. Then he looked up, as if noticing Theon for the first time. “You are cold,” he noted, standing swiftly. “You should not even be out of bed,”

“I was…” Theon hugged himself, suddenly feeling the cold with the absence of Robb’s body. “I don’t intend to stay.”

“I knew you would not,” Robb agreed. “You need to return to your mother.” He held out a hand, and Theon took it without thinking. He was hoisted to his feet so quickly the world spun around him. “But I will make you a deal. I cannot escort you back to your room right now, in the daylight, but if, by the time the sun goes down, you are still there…” He paused to brush an errant strand of hair from Theon’s face, and Theon wanted to lean into his touch. “I will be there as well and I will tell you about how I died and how I killed my entire family.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for all the exposition over the next few chapters, if anyone finds it annoying. I considered doing flashbacks, but I thought this way was much more appropriate for the Victorian/Gothic tone going on.

The sun had sunk completely almost an hour ago. The world outside Theon’s window was all dark shapes against and even darker sky—the bare, twisted branches of winter trees and the gaping abyss of the ravine beyond. A single lantern bobbed like a rowboat adrift at sea. Theon had been watching it since it had appeared as the last rays of daylight vanished. It was headed toward the castle, slowly and steadily. As it neared, it passed behind a stone wall and vanished from view.

He sighed and leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands on his knees. He hoped the rumpled sheets on the bed behind him were evidence that he really had been resting. He really had. Or at least tried. He had tossed and turned, and if he had fallen asleep long enough to dream, he couldn’t remember it.

He was glad of it. No Rodrik had shown his face again. If he had, Theon would have begged forgiveness for throwing his brother’s warning away by staying where he was. The thing was, even if he ran now, fled while nobody in the castle was the wiser, he’d only be running from himself, his own weakened thoughts. And those would follow him no matter where he went.

Now, perched in the chair and looking out the window, he gripped the locket in his hand. As if it could offer him any peace of mind when it was, itself, another source of his troubled thoughts. The visions, the dreams. Where…?

The back of his neck prickled, and the candles flickered. “I thought our bargain was that you would be resting in bed.” The rebuke was mild and mostly chiding, but that voice still sent chills up Theon’s spine.

He turned to see the dark shape of Robb Stark lurking in the doorway.

“Our bargain also said you would be here by sundown.” Theon let the locket fall under his shirt again. He did not rise to greet Robb, still irked that he had been kept waiting.

“I apologize,” Robb said and lumbered into the room. “My sister Arya returned this evening, and I had to hear what news she carried.”

“And what news did she carry?”

Robb did not answer right away. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

Theon huffed and reclined into the chair like a petulant child. “You were going to tell me a bedtime story.”

Robb made his way over to the window, his movements deliberate, like a trainer approaching a spooked horse. “It is not the stuff of sweet dreams, but if you get into bed, I will tell you.”

“You’re quite eager to have me in bed, aren’t you?” He hadn’t meant to say that. Out loud. Like that. Old habits just…slipping out.

“I’m quite eager to have you resting,” Robb said without missing a beat.

“I’m comfortable here.” He’d meant to say that. Not…the other thing. “I’ll go back to resting after.”

Robb pursed his lips but didn’t object. Instead, he came to sit in the other chair, lowering himself like a silent shadow next to Theon. He sat there, leaning back, hands on the chair’s arms, staring out into the darkness beyond the window for a long time.

“I was born three hundred seventeen years ago,” he began. His gaze went back there, those ages ago. The light in the room seemed to dim. “I was the firstborn son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, the Count and Countess of Winterfell. You saw their portrait in the parlor.”

“Above the fireplace?”

Robb nodded. “Ours was a large territory, full of forests and decent farmland, but not much else of great worth. We were seen as a valuable trade route, but largely we were insulated from the politics of the era. My father inherited the title of count when his older brother died, some years before I was born. His younger brother and sister I also never met, as they had vanished some time ago as well, with no word of their whereabouts in years. As such, there was never any doubt I would succeed my father’s position, make a good political match, and continue to uphold stability in the region.”

He held up his hand. “I don’t mean to make that sound as grim as all that. In truth, I was more frightened by the prospect of disappointing my parents than I was of their expectations of me. They always taught me to hold honor above all else—my own, my family’s. And so when they told me I was to be married to a wealthy trader’s daughter, I did not complain. I had never met the girl, of course. Neither had my parents; they didn’t know if we were a suitable match. But our families’ interests seemed to line up, so I smiled and agreed.

“The wedding date was set for springtime, when the snows would melt the travel would be easier. Except…” Robb spread his arms wide. “It was not to be. Because that winter, we welcomed some guests into our castle, some lesser vassals known as the Westerlings. They had a daughter.”

“Ahh,” Theon said with a nod. “Attractive?”

Robb had to think for a while, which couldn’t have been too flattering for the poor girl. “I can barely recall her face, after three hundred years,” he finally replied. “I remember that she was a pleasant girl. Friendly.”

“Friendly?” Theon repeated with a knowing grin.

Robb shook his head. “She was a very proper girl. I was a very proper boy. Our interactions were…chaste. She liked music and dancing, and I was happy to dance with her. I took her horse riding through the snow, and we would spend afterwards in front of the fire, warming up. She told me secrets she had never told anyone else, about how she resented her overbearing mother and how she felt very alone in her own home. I thought of her as a sister. Or, at least, I _thought_ I thought of her as a sister.”

He paused again, perhaps waiting for Theon to offer another quip. But Theon remained silent. He wanted desperately to find out how any of this had led to Robb becoming a vampire and didn’t wish to interrupt anymore.

Robb must have sensed this, because he gave a single bob of his head, almost like a grateful nod, and continued. “One day, my two youngest brothers were out sledding in the snow, and there was an accident. They were flung from the sled, and the older of the two, Bran…he was injured terribly. For a fortnight he lay in bed, all but dead to the world, and the physician doubted he would ever wake again. Mother spent all day and night by his bedside. I don’t remember ever hearing her weep before. It was terrible.”

There was a hollowness in his voice, as if he were reciting someone else’s story. Someone whose story he knew the beats of but couldn’t quite capture the emotion of.

“I, myself, could hardly eat or sleep with worry, but I could not burden my parents with my thoughts. Nor my sisters or remaining brother. But Jeyne—the Westerling girl, not…her name was also Jeyne,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “She had confided in me, and so I confided in her. My doubts, my worries. My fears that Bran would die. And more. I told her how terrified I was of taking on the mantle of count and disappointing my parents, and how I was uncertain about the girl I was to marry, whether I would be a suitable husband to her or not. Jeyne listened to it all. And when I was done, she hugged me and kissed me. It felt so good, so freeing. It felt like she didn’t see the future Count of Winterfell, but _me_.

“I could have stopped it, at any moment. I had the ability. A word, and she would have stopped, and we could both get dressed and pretend nothing had happened between us. But I was…weak. I knew the rules, knew I was sullying mine and my family’s honor, but in that instant, for maybe the first time in my life until that point, I _decided_ to be selfish.

“She took my virginity; I took hers. It was not something that could be undone, and when my senses returned, my honor would not allow me to forget it. So I told her parents what I had done and that I intended to do right by Jeyne by marrying her. As you can imagine, they were not best pleased; _my_ parents were even less pleased. I had to fight to do what I believed, with all my heart, to be the right thing. I told them I loved her and that my mind was made up, even if it meant breaking off my promise to the trader’s daughter.

“There was a great deal of unrest due to my decision. The trader was furious, accusing us of undermining him and threatening to inform the duke of our treachery. My father was forced to treat with the man and he managed to calm him by brokering a new deal. Sansa was now to marry one of his sons. She was not happy. She had been hoping to be wed to the eldest son of Count Baratheon, someone she considered much more her equal. She raged and cried and begged them to take Arya instead. But Sansa was the eldest daughter. It made more sense, and the arrangements made. I married Jeyne, and come springtime, our family set out for Sansa’s wedding.

“Mother and Father were reluctant to attend, at first, since Bran had still not awoken, but we could not afford to further slight the trader and his family. Only the youngest, Rickon, stayed behind. The rest of us packed our things for the journey.

“When we arrived, the trader welcomed us into his home and assured us that he was willing to put the whole disagreement behind us. He even greeted my wife, though he kept giving me pointed stares. I figured he had not truly forgiven me for slighting his daughter. Back then, I did not possess the…prescience I do now.” His brows furrowed, and it seemed the memory truly troubled him. Theon did not offer any comment; he felt the story was about to take a rather nasty turn.

“The wedding was lavish. My parents had donated a generous sum to the ceremony. Sansa looked so beautiful in her wedding dress as our father led her down the aisle, and I could tell, despite her earlier protests, she was pleased with the arrangements. She must have felt like a princess, even if her groom-to-be was not quite the prince she had always envisioned as a young girl. The priest blessed the union and she walked out of the hall arm-in-arm with her new husband. We all applauded. We didn’t know what was next.

“The doors closed and the music began to play. And that’s when the trader made his move. I heard Jeyne scream. I looked over and saw that the man sitting next to her, one of the groom’s brothers, had stood and stabbed her in the stomach.” He said it so levelly, as if it were the most natural and logical progression to this story so far.

It took Theon a moment to even realize what he’d truly said. “ _Stabbed_ her?”

“I couldn’t understand what I was seeing at first,” Robb went on. “It felt like something in a dream. And then there were more screams. All around me, the trader’s men drew weapons and turned them on my family and our servants. I saw people I had known my entire life cut down and killed before my eyes. I heard their last screams.

“Jeyne’s screaming turned to choked gasping, and she grabbed onto me. There was pain and terror in her eyes, but I didn’t know what I could do for her besides trying to stop up her wound. I watched the life bleed out of her. I heard my father call out for me, and I looked up just in time to see him struck in the shoulder with an arrow, and then the side, and then the heart. I heard my mother’s scream, like a beast’s roar. She fought her way to my father’s body, but another man grabbed her and slit her throat almost to the bone. I saw her fall to the ground, on top of my father’s body. There was still life in her as her eyes met mine.

“And then the groom’s brother plunged his dagger, still wet with my wife’s gore, into my chest. It is not a pain I can describe. I did not cry out or scream. I’m uncertain whether I reacted at all. I’ve seen enough men die since then—and have been the cause of more than a few deaths myself—and if you watch their eyes, they usually crawl inside themselves, as if they can hide from what’s coming. I feel I must have been the same. It’s like the instinct of a wounded animal.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched. It was the most emotion he’d shown so far, though _what_ emotion, exactly, Theon didn’t truly want to contemplate.

“I fell onto the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe. The screaming all around me faded away, though I wasn’t sure if it was because I was dying or because there were so few of us left to scream.

“When the screams suddenly grew louder, I thought they might be the final figments of a dying man’s mind. But as I lay on that cold, hard ground, suddenly I felt a warmth. There were arms cradling me. They lifted my head and turned my face so I could see. It was a woman. I thought it was Arya, a vision of her as a woman grown. There was blood on her lips. She had a kind face, full of patience. She caressed my cheek and said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ I could not answer, and she seemed to know this. She said, ‘I am your Aunt Lyanna.’

“My Aunt Lyanna had been presumed dead for some time, and so I thought perhaps she had come to welcome me to heaven…or perhaps hell. But she was very real. She pulled me closer and said, ‘I cannot save my brother and his wife. I have come too late. But I can save you, my dearest nephew. I have a gift for you, the gift of life, but you must accept it willingly. It is not life such as you are accustomed to. It is quite different, and quite burdensome at times. I cannot promise you will not regret taking it.’ She gave me a serene smile. ‘Do you accept?’

“I had no strength left in me, but I managed to nod. How could I not? I was but a weak mortal, and she had offered me another chance at life. I wanted to make right the mistakes I had made. I wanted to avenge my mother and father and wife. I needed to know what had become of Sansa and my younger sister Arya, whom I had not seen cut down, and my brothers who were still at Winterfell. So I nodded, and she bent her lips to my neck.”

Outside the window, an owl hooted.

Robb looked out. “It is late,” he remarked. And then he stood, as if to go.

Theon blinked in surprise. “What happened next?”

“I became a vampire.”

“I mean, that’s surely not the end of the story. How did you turn Sansa, for instance?”

Robb adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “I will continue the story tomorrow night,” he said. “If you are still here, of course.”

Theon narrowed his eyes. “That’s a dirty trick.”

Robb gave him that good-natured grin again. “Perhaps. But it’s entirely your choice. Now, you need to rest and I need to attend to Arya.”

“So, you did find your other sister?”

Robb put a finger to his lips. “Tomorrow night.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for domestic abuse and brief mentions of rape.

Jeyne brought him a meal in the morning. The Jeyne he’d been speaking to, obviously, not Robb’s Jeyne. He thought about Robb’s Jeyne as the other Jeyne set a tray with porridge and sausage links on his lap. Robb’s Jeyne. His wife. He was surprised that he could feel jealousy for a dead woman.

He slept most of the rest of the day, awaking from the odd afterimage of a dream—laughing, taunting, yelling. Each time he awoke, he no more rested than when he’d fallen asleep. Perhaps even less. Worse, every time he checked the window, the sun had hardly moved at all. Time seemed to have come to a complete stop, but eventually the sky grew orange and cast long shadows along the floor. As orange turned to purple, he got up from bed and perched himself in the same chair he had last night. And waited.

He did not have to wait much longer, because as soon as the last rays vanished, he felt the cold itching at the back of his neck. But the voice that spoke was not the one he had expected. “It’s dark in here.”

He realized he had not bothered to light any candles tonight, and so when he turned, he could hardly make out anything in the dark. Just a shape that glided along the floor. Then a flare of light, and Sansa’s face became illuminated in the glow of the candle on the nightstand. Like a wraith, she moved silently about the room, lighting candles as she went.

“Where’s Robb?” Theon asked.

“He told me where you had left off in the story,” she replied evenly. “I will tell the next part. I hope that’s agreeable.”

He had been anticipating Robb, but he nodded nonetheless.

She finished light the final candle, then turned and made her way to the chair opposite Theon. She carried a silver tray in her hands, laden with a teapot and teacups, which she set on the small side table between them. Her hair was up again tonight, bound in an intricate braided bun. Her skin seemed paler, though, colder. “Do you drink tea?” she asked as she laid out the teacups.

“Erm…yes,” Theon said, though he truly didn’t. Not with any regularity. According to his father, it was a womanish hobby reserved for fussy old ladies. “Do you? Drink tea, that is.”

Her full lips pulled into a smile, and she picked up the teapot, one hand on the handle, the other holding the lid in place as she tipped and poured. “I enjoy the odd spot of tea. Can’t really taste it, but it warms the body.” She filled both teacups, then took hers and sat, fanning her skirts about her. She took a long, thoughtful sip then let the cup rest between her hands on her lap.

“To tell my part of this story, I need to go back a bit. Back to when I was a naïve young girl with a head full of dreams. Back then, I wanted nothing more than to marry Joffrey Lannister, the oldest son of the Earl of Lannisport.” Her eye flickered up and to the left, as if trying to recall something. “I don’t remember _why_ I wanted that so much. I just know I’d never wanted anything more in my life up until that point, and when I learned I was to marry the uncouth son of Walder Frey, I was…” She quirked her head, weighing her words. “A bit put out.

“But the wedding day came and I performed my daughterly duty. I walked down the aisle at my father’s side, I said my vows. I said that I promised to cherish and love this man I’d never laid eyes on before—and he was not terribly impressive, I must tell you, and he was a fair sight older than me. He kissed me, they rang the bells, and then I walked back down the aisle, this time as this stranger’s side. The chapel doors closed behind us, and I believe Robb told you what happened next.”

“Everyone was killed,” Theon said.

“Yes.” Sansa nodded to the side table. “The tea has been steeped. You can drink it whenever you wish.”

“Oh.” Theon took his cup and saucer, feeling a bit foolish. The tea had a subtle but soothing fragrance to it, and he sipped it.

Sansa brought her cup to her mouth as well, one pinky held out. Then set it gently back in the saucer on her lap. “Of course, I didn’t know it was happening at the time. My husband led me to my bridal suite, where we were to consummate our marriage. Only when we got there, two guards followed us in. I told him to dismiss them, and he laughed and said he’d promised them turns with me.”

Theon felt a lump in his throat. “Did they…?”

“No,” Sansa answered, “though they made is quite clear they intended to rape me. I asked how he could possibly treat his new bride in such a way, and he struck me across the face and said I was not his bride. The man who had overseen ours vows had not been a real priest; it had all been a ruse. And then he continued to hit me until someone told him to stop. It was another guard, dressed in golden armor. I remember thinking he was an angel sent from heaven to save me.

“He said he was one of Joffrey Lannister’s personal guards, and when he ordered the other guards and my ‘husband’ to stand down, they did. They allowed me to get to my feet and run to the golden guard. He draped his cloak over me and told me his name was Meryn Trant and that he would protect me in his master’s name. And then he told me to come with him, that there was a carriage waiting to take me away.

“I had a thousand and one questions, of course, but he was very vague. He simply told me my family had been betrayed and that they were all, the lot of them, dead. I did not want to believe him, but I couldn’t think of a single reason he would lie to me like that. At the time, at least. Now I can imagine a thousand reasons he would lie to me. But as it turned out, he was not lying. He thought no one had made it out of the chapel.

“I wept the entire ride to Lannisport, so confused and frightened. When we arrived, Joffrey met us at the gates, and I wept anew as he took me into his arms and brushed his hand through my hair. He whispered to me that I was safe now and that he would protect me.” She smirked ruefully. “I believed him.”

She took a long drink from her teacup. Theon followed suit. The tea was bitter and hot on his tongue. She had not offered him any sugar or honey, but he would most likely have turned it down in any case.

“At first he was kind. He lavished me with expensive gifts—gowns and jewelry and shoes. He had exotic foods brought in. He was attentive and made time for me at all hours of the day. I thought he was trying to distract me from my grief, but he was truly luring me into a false sense of trust. A monster can only pretend to be a gentleman for so long. He would snap at me, or make a snide comment—nothing too cutting, at first, I’m sure they were mostly slips of the tongue. He was not a good actor. I could see it, even back then, but I so wanted to believe that he was my savior and protector.”

She brought her teacup to her lips, but paused, holding it there as the steam continued to rise from it. “I should feel shame at how stupid I was, how naïve and gullible. But I only feel pity for that girl. She wasn’t me.” Her gaze was lost somewhere out the window.

Theon’s teacup clinked the saucer as he set it back down, and she blinked, as if being drawn back to the present.

“One day, my weeping got on his nerves, and he struck me across the face with the back of his hand. He told me I’d wept enough and that my woman’s tears wouldn’t continue to buy his good graces anymore.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “I…wasn’t surprised when it happened, I don’t think. I was just…frightened. And when I continued to cry, he ordered Meryn Trant to strike me, hard enough to draw blood from my lip.

“From then on, his remarks became more cutting and cruel. He would berate me for any clumsiness on my part, any misspoken word, in front of others. He mocked my dead family, said they were liars and traitors and they deserved what had happened to them. When I would not stand for that, when I spoke against him, he ordered Meryn to beat me until I was covered in bruises. He confined me to my room, under lock and guard. I realized I had become a prisoner.

“One day he told me that Walder Frey had come to his grandfather to complain of my father’s betrayal. His family had long coveted our lands, and so they conspired with the Freys to have my family murdered. That was why Meryn Trant had been there that day—to oversee the execution of their plan.” Her grip on her teacup’s handle grew tight, and her knuckles stood out against her pale skin. “I do remember the anger I felt then. How I slapped him across the face.” She snorted. “Such a pitiful act of defiance, but the only one I thought myself capable of at the time. In return, he had Meryn tear the dress from my body and beat me until I could no longer scream for mercy from losing my voice. I could not move, I could not speak, I could hardly see from the swelling of my eyes. I truly thought I would die. He told me the next time I lifted my hand to him, he would have Meryn and all the guards in the castle rape me. And then he left me, bleeding and broken on the floor.”

She finished the last of her tea and set the cup and saucer on the tray.

“And that was when Robb found me. I did not know it was him at first. I thought it was Joffrey or Meryn, come to make good of his threat. I could not see who was lifting me and setting me onto the bed, nor did I immediately recognize the voice that tried to soothe me. After all, to my mind, Robb was dead, murdered many miles away from there. He said, ‘Oh, Sansa, I am so sorry. I am so sorry this has happened to you, and all on my account. I have already killed those who murdered Mother and Father. Aunt Lyanna gave me a gift that I would like to pass onto you. With this gift, you will kill those who have done this to you. It comes with a price, but I know you are strong enough. Will you take it?’

“In that moment, I would have sold my soul to destroy Joffrey and those who had wronged my family. I said, ‘Yes, I will take it,’ as best I was able. I remember the last words Robb said before he bit me. He said, ‘This will be strange for you.’ Then he bit me and…” She quirked her head slightly. “I don’t need to explain to you what that was like, though you have not been drained to the point where you felt you heart stop. I did. Dying was…it felt like I had been anchored for a long, long time, and someone had finally cut my tether. It felt like leaving everything behind.

“But at the last moment, as I floated upwards, it was as if a hand grabbed hold of my ankle and pulled me back. I fought it at first, but then I felt a warm, thick drink in my mouth, and it felt so good on my throat after screaming for so long. I welcomed it, took more and more of it. It filled me and made me heavy. And after that came a fevered pain. I tossed and turned as my body died, as the new blood Robb had given me worked its way into my veins. It lasted for hours, and when it was finally done, I was born anew. And I was very, very…hungry.”

She grinned, her fangs glinting in the candlelight.

Theon shuddered. “You killed them then? Joffrey and Trant?”

“And everyone else in the castle, servant and noble alike. Innocent or not.” She made a show of examining her fingernails. “Robb and I together, though he let me have both Joffrey and Trant. And when it was done, when my bloodlust was sated and the sun began to rise on that day, Robb told me of the price I had paid for my vengeance. We retreated to the dark of the dungeons beneath the castle, and there I slept for many days and my transformation completed. At the end of it, I awoke feeling as if my old life had been a dream. I asked Robb what we would do next, and he said, ‘We must find the others.’”

“And you did?” Theon asked.

Sansa smiled, a closed-lip smile this time, and reached over and took the teacup from his hands. He had hardly drunk any of it. She set it on the tray and gathered the tray up and stood. “Well, that’s for tomorrow night, isn’t it?”

“Again?” Theon cried. “You intend to keep me here another night by drawing this story out?”

“Scheherazade managed a thousand and one nights,” she replied as she swept around the chair. “One more for us shouldn’t be that difficult.”


	23. Chapter 23

His dreams were filled with blood and screaming and death. Someone grabbed hold of his shoulder and he bolted awake to see Jeyne hovering over him. She squeaked in surprise and jumped back. “You were talking in your sleep,” she said.

“What was I saying?” Theon sat up and felt for the side of his neck. As Robb had promised, the bite marks were completely gone.

“Just…noises,” she said, evasively enough that he couldn’t tell if she was speaking the truth or not. “It sounded like you were having a nightmare. I have nightmares too.” She turned and picked up a silver tray from the nightstand. “I brought you breakfast.”

“Yes, thank you,” Theon muttered, and positioned himself so she could set the tray in his lap. He shook his head to get rid of the lingering visions of violence in his head. “Jeyne, may I…ask you something?”

She regarded him suspiciously. Fair enough. She already considered his earlier questions prying. She would probably refuse this one as well.

“How did you come to…?” He milled his hand about in the air. “…serve Sansa? _Lady_ Sansa,” he corrected himself.

She drew her lips in in disapproval. “She rescued me from a bad situation. That’s all you need to know.”

He nodded to show he understood. He wondered if Jeyne’s bad situation had been anything like Sansa’s.

“How long do you suppose it’ll be until I’m strong enough to leave?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Normally it takes about three weeks to recover your strength fully after a feeding,” she answered primly. “But seeing as Robb took more than normal, it could take a month or longer. That’s full strength, though. You may be ready to travel in a fortnight, provided you are accompanied by someone.”

“Accompanied by who?”

“A mortal, I presume,” Jeyne said. “It is dangerous for vampires to travel out from their castle. They risk getting caught in the sun, and even if they find a place to sleep for the night, they are vulnerable without a human to help them. That’s why Mistress Arya always takes her blood doll with her when she hunts.”

“Mistress Arya? Who returned last night?”

“Perhaps Patrek would take you,” Jeyne continued, ignoring him. “He regularly goes to the coast on business. And he does need to make amends for stealing your family’s heirloom in the first place.”

“You want me to travel with the man who killed my brother?”

“Actually, I think the two of you would get on quite well. You’re very alike.” She said this last part almost as if it were an insult. “I’ll be back around midday to bring you another meal.”

She turned to go.

“Jeyne,” he called after her. “I understand now.”

She looked over her shoulder, a quizzical look on her face.

He rubbed at his neck where Robb had bitten him. “What it’s like,” he explained. “You were right. It’s not something you can explain.”

The smallest of smiles turned the corners of her mouth up, but other than that, there was no response. She scuttled from the room.

Theon ate his breakfast and rested some more. All this resting was tiring business, but he thought he was regaining his strength little by little. He wasn’t dizzy, for instance, when the sun finally began to set and he stood to make his way over to his usual chair.

He desperately hoped Robb would show tonight. He wanted to see him, ask him questions. He sat with his neck craned, watching the door, intent on not being caught off guard this time. And was startled by a loud tapping sound from behind. He whipped his head around and saw a raven perched on the outside sill, pecking at the glass. He stood to shoo it away. It cawed at him and took off into the night, disappearing into the rest of the blackness. Annoyed, Theon turned back to his chair, only to find someone already sitting there.

It was difficult to tell whether the stranger was a man or woman. They were waifish in build, but they were wearing men’s clothing and their hair was pulled back in an androgynous ponytail. They grinned as Theon drew near, flashing obvious fangs. “You’re the mortal Ramsay used to try to lure us out into the open?” The voice was feminine. Brown eyes scanned him up and down. “Well, considering what Robb and Sansa have told me about you, he knows how to pick them.”

“Are you…?” Theon furrowed his brow. “You must be…Arya?” he hazarded.

“Good guess.” She kicked up her legs up onto the side table. “So they’ve at least mentioned my name to you.”

“You’ve been out hunting Snow…Ramsay.” He approached slowly. “Did you catch him?”

“No,” she answered simply.

“So he’s still out there?”

“Unfortunately.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “He’s slippery.”

Theon wondered what they would do for his prospects of leaving here. If Jeyne was right, though, he had some time before he had to give it any serious thought.

“Are you here to tell me the next part of the story?”

She grinned at him and gestured to the opposite chair. “Have a seat…Theoss, was it?”

“Theon.”

She shrugged, as if it made no difference to her. “Have a seat. I promise I’m not going to tear your throat out.”

He wasn’t sure what a promise from this strange woman was worth, but it seemed that Robb had sent her to tell her portion of the story, and he trusted Robb would not put him in any danger. He…trusted Robb. What a strange revelation. But there it was.

He sat.

“You don’t need to make yourself too comfortable,” Arya said. “I don’t draw things out like my brother and sister do. Speaking of which, I’m going to assume you’ve been brought up to the speed.”

“Robb was betrayed at Sansa’s wedding. His aunt turned him here, and he turned Sansa.”

She nodded in approval. “I was at the wedding. I wasn’t killed. Not there, at least.” She grinned at that. “It was just after the doors had closed. The man sitting next to me on the pew kept fiddling with his sleeve. I remember thinking that was odd at the time, so I kept an eye on him. So I was watching when the music began and he pulled a knife out of his sleeve. I screamed for my mother and father to watch out, but it was already too late by then. I heard Jeyne scream, and then everyone around me was screaming.

“The man I’d seen draw the knife from his sleeve tried to stab me, but I saw him coming and managed to duck under the pew. He got on his hands and knees to chase after me, and as he tried to grab for my ankle to drag me back out, a knife burst out of his throat. He gagged and fell over and writhed in his own blood. It was the first time I’d seen someone killed.”

She leaned her cheek against her hand, and the utter lack of emotion in her voice chilled Theon.

“A hand reached out to me, and I heard a voice say, ‘Come with me, Miss Arya.’ I recognized the voice of my father’s man. Yoren was his name. I took his hand, and he pulled me out and led me to the wall, away from the fighting. He had managed to take a sword from one of Frey’s men, and he used this to cut down anyone who tried to come after us. He said, ‘I saw Walder Frey leave this way. I think there must be a way out behind the altar. This way, Miss Arya.’ And sure enough, there was a door hidden in the back of the apse.

“Yoren ushered me through it and lifted me over the wall outside. He said, ‘I’m going back for your family. Hide until morning, Miss Arya. If I don’t return, start making your way north, to Winterfell.’ And then he left me. I waited in the forest behind the chapel until sunrise, but Yoren didn’t return. I found out later he was killed trying to rescue Sansa. No one had come for me, so I slowly began to make my way through the forest.

“I had no food, no shelter, just the clothes on my back, which I had been forced to wear on account of the wedding. But what I had plenty of was time for was thinking. And planning how I was going to kill every last son and daughter of Walder Frey, and anyone else who had had a hand in murdering my family.

“I was half-starved by the time I finally came upon a farm. I did not trust the family not to ask questions, so I stole some clothes from their line and food from their pantry and kept moving. I traveled by foot north, until I heard talk that my youngest brother, Rickon, had died of some mysterious illness, leaving only my second youngest brother, Bran, at Winterfell, yet to wake up. As such, our closest living relatives, the Karstarks, were installed. I was unsure whether Winterfell would be safe to return to, so I kept wandering.

“My journeys after that are not really relevant to you. I worked in a kitchen, apprenticed as a page to a scholar, joined a band of highwaymen, and met an assassin who was also a shape-shifter. I wandered, each place seeming to take me farther and farther from my revenge.

“Until one day I heard a new rumor. That the Karstarks had abruptly fled Winterfell in the middle of the night, along with all their servants and vassals. There were whispers of ghosts, that Lord and Lady Stark had returned from the grave. Naturally, I had to see for myself. I thought it might well be the same old nonsense the peasants were prone to telling. But then again, I had met a shape-shifter, and I knew there were things in this world beyond explanation.

“I arrived at Winterfell a week later to find a castle that everyone swore up and down was abandoned, and yet lights could be seen in the windows at night, and the shadows of figures. Those who went to investigate never returned. They warned me not to go, but I needed to see for myself. And so I headed out for the castle.” She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “I’m sure you can guess what I found there.”

“Robb and Sansa.”

“And my Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen, whom I had never met before. When I saw what had become of my brother and sister, I asked that they turn me as well.”

“ _You_ asked?” Theon said in surprise.

“Sansa tried to talk me out of it, of course, but I wanted it. Robb did the turning. It was…painful.”

“Do you regret it?” Theon asked.

“Sometimes,” Arya said bluntly. “I miss being able to move around in the daylight. I miss being able to exist without rules I must abide by.” She kicked her feet down from the side table. “But mostly I don’t live with regrets. Mostly because I don’t live.” She grinned wickedly at her own joke and jumped to her feet.

“Are you leaving?” Theon asked.

“I told you, I don’t draw things out like my siblings.”

“Right. But…there are more of you, I take it?” He had seen at least four coffins in the catacombs but so far had only met three vampires.

Her grin grew wider to show her teeth. “Well, I suppose you’ll find out tomorrow night, eh?” She turned to go with a sauntering gait.

“Thank you,” Theon called after her.

“Normally I don’t tell that story to someone I’ve just met,” she called back, not turning to look. “Not someone I intend to let live, that is. But Robb seems to have taken a liking to you, so I’ll give you this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in Part IV.


	24. Chapter 24

He woke from a surprisingly peaceful sleep to find two strangers looming at the end of his bed. He snapped fully awake with a yelp and pulled a pillow into his lap to act as a shield. “Who’re you?”

The strangers looked at each other. They were both pale with sunken eyes, both had brown, curly hair, and both bore the same bite marks on their necks as Jeyne did. And once Theon had the wherewithal to glance to the window, he realized that they were standing in the sunlight without any trouble, which meant they were probably mortal. Or not vampires at least.

The young woman spoke first. “I’m Meera and this is my brother Jojen.” She held a tray in her hands, which she held out for him. “We were sent to bring you your breakfast this morning.”

“And to tell you a story,” the young man said in an eerily similar tone.

Theon frowned. “You’re going to tell the next part of the story?”

“On behalf of our master, yes,” Meera said with a prim nod. She set the tray on the bed. “Please eat. You will regain your strength faster.”

Theon hesitantly pulled the tray into his lap, never taking his eyes off the odd pair. “Who’s your master?” _Let it not be Robb_ , he thought. If Robb already had not one, but _two_ servants like Sansa did—what had Robb called Jeyne, a blood doll?—he would get up from bed and leave this very minute, never look back.

“Lord Brandon Stark,” Jojen responded smartly, arms tucked behind his back.

Theon breathed a bit of relief. Then he tried to recall the name from Robb’s story. “The boy who was injured in the sledding accident?”

“The very same.”

“We weren’t there for most of it,” Meera said. “But neither was Master Bran, and he felt we could tell it just as well as he could.”

Theon picked up his fork and took a bite of the blood pudding they’d given him this morning. “Alright,” he said through a mouthful. “I’m listening.”

Jojen and Meera grinned at each other.

“As I’m sure you heard from Master Robb,” Jojen began, “Master Bran was in a deep sleep during the massacre of his family as his sister’s wedding. When news came back to the castle, it was decided that the nearest living relatives would move in and see to Winterfell’s needs until such time as either Master Bran or Rickon came of age.”

“But Rickon disappeared from his room in the night,” Meera added.

“Died of the plague, they said, to cover up for the fact that nobody knew where he was or what had truly happened to him. Which left Master Bran as heir apparent, once he came of age.”

“And it was looking less and less likely each day that Master Bran even _would_ come of age. He was very clearly dying.”

They both paused, as if Theon should laugh at this part, or react in some way. But he didn’t have the slightest clue how to and remained silent.

Jojen took an annoyed breath and continued. “Occasionally Master Bran would open his eyes and seem to be awake. Perhaps he could even be coaxed to sit up and eat. But it was clear that even as his body was awake, his mind was somewhere else, dreaming.”

“He dreamed for a long time,” Meera picked up. “A very long time. And he was still dreaming when the shadows moved into the castle.”

“The shadows?” Theon interrupted. “You mean…?”

“The servants began to whisper that they saw the restless ghosts of Mistress Catelyn and her children wandering the halls at night,” Jojen said.

“And then people started turning up dead, drained of their blood, faces frozen in the terror of their last few moments. The Karstarks brought in a priest to bless the castle. His body was found the next day.”

“But what truly caused the Karstarks to flee was the night Master Bran woke from his endless sleep. He rose from his bed and killed the serving girl who’d come to tend him. Walked the halls of the castle wearing her blood all down his front. The servants fled before him. He’d been possessed by the ghost of Eddard Stark, they said. The Karstarks fled the castle that very night and never returned.”

“Master Bran was no ordinary vampire,” Meera said. “Because Robb had turned Master Bran while he slept, he became the Vampire Who Dreams.”

“He dreams of all kinds of things,” Jojen agreed. “The past, the present, the future.”

“Maybe he’s dreaming about us right now.”

“Maybe he _is_ dreaming us. Maybe we’re just part of his dream.”

Theon felt bad for having thought Jeyne was crazy, when clearly these two were _much_ less sane than her.

“May I ask you something?” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Jojen said.

“Whatever you want,” Meera agreed.

They stared at him.

Theon suddenly had to struggle to remember his question, and why he’d wanted to ask it. “Your master…he’s killed people. Humans.”

“And other vampires.” Meera waved her hand. “But that’s another story.”

“We could tell it to you,” Jojen said.

“No, that’s…maybe some other time. What I want to know is…are you ever afraid of him?”

They looked at each other.

“No,” they replied as one.

“You’re not afraid that he might…kill _you_ …one of these days?”

They looked at each other again and chuckled, like it was a secret joke between them.

“We do hope you enjoyed the story,” Meera said, without answering.

“Yes, but we must go now and attend to our master while he dreams.”

“Maybe when he wakes up,” Meera said with a devilish smirk, “we will pop out of existence…like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“I hope not,” Jojen said with an equally devilish smirk. “We wouldn’t be able to serve him very well then, would we?”

And then they turned, as if synchronized, and waltzed from the room, leaving Theon as uneasy as he’d been thus far during this stay here.

He finished his blood pudding, even though he wasn’t particularly hungry, and settled in to sleep the rest of the day, wondering who, if anyone, would come to him that night.

Was there another he hadn’t met yet? Robb had said he’d had five siblings—he presumed he was not counting Jon. According to Arya’s story, the youngest had died of some illness—was reported to have died from some illness—but according to Meera and Jojen’s story, the youngest had actually vanished from his room. Perhaps he was still around and would come to tell his story, or send his own blood doll to tell it. But perhaps nobody would come at all.

He laid his head on the pillow and slept.

And dreamed.

He dreamed there was someone over him, weight pushing him down, hands exploring his body. And he wasn’t afraid. He wanted it. More of it. All of it. “Make me yours,” he moaned. There was a dull ache inside of him. He couldn’t pinpoint where, just that the person on top of him could fix it. “Make me yours. I want it.”

He woke up tangled in his sheets. The room was dark. That was the first thing he noticed, before he realized he was covered in his own sweat…and seed. He swallowed down his panic, his disgust at having spent in his sleep…again. He wasn’t a virgin boy on the Iron Islands anymore. Those dreams…they pulled it out of him. They couldn’t be from his own mind. They _couldn’t_.

He stumbled out of bed, trailing the mess behind him, trying to gather the sheets into his arms so he could…he had to…

No sooner had his bare feet brushed the cold stone floor than a shiver ran up his body, from his heels to the top of his head. The sensation was familiar now, and his head swiveled around, chasing it like it was a draft. Glowing blue eyes watched him from the doorway, with a hunger Theon could feel in the pit of his own stomach. It was enough to make his breath catch.

Robb Stark had come to him again.

Theon pulled the blankets close to himself, as if he could hide the evidence of his shame. Maybe from sight, but not from smell. Robb’s nostrils flared, and his lips parted, like a sommelier savoring a fine wine before drinking it.

There was silence as they watched each other.

Theon felt his heart thundering in his ears. Robb could probably hear it as well.

Robb was the first to speak. “So now you know how I killed my family, every last one. Even my mother and father. What do you think of me now?”

Theon drew in a breath, mostly because he felt he couldn’t breathe. It gave him time to contemplate what he wanted to say.

“I don’t think you were selfish,” he answered at last. “I think you were afraid.”

Robb cocked his head.

“I think you turned all of your siblings, even when you knew what you were doing to them, because you were afraid to let them go. You were afraid to live in a world without them, because then you would be all alone with your guilt.” The blankets slipped from his arms and landed on the floor. He was left in only his nightshirt, standing before the dead man. “I think you’re more human than you let on.”

Robb’s eyes flicked away from him, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps I was afraid _and_ selfish.”  


Theon took a step forward. When Robb didn’t flinch, he took another. “I don’t think less of you.” _At least not the way you were afraid I would_. But he didn’t know how to put it into words. That in sharing their story, he—all of them—had revealed a vulnerability. A vulnerability that Balon and Rodrik and Euron would scoff at. A vulnerability Theon himself might have scoffed at, once. But now he stood and vulnerable as he’d ever been in front of anyone himself. Vulnerable and weak in his own desires. “I want you…”

Theon froze. Robb’s eyes widened.

Silence again. Only the pounding of his heart, beating to the dull, throbbing ache inside him.

He swallowed, hard, and finished the distance between them. He had to stand just slightly on his toes to bring their faces level, and there he stood, poised, hands grasping either side of Robb’s face. “I’m not afraid of what I want,” he said, and leaned in.

Their lips met.

Robb’s skin was colder than it had been last time they’d met, but still malleable, still wet and giving as he moved his lips against Theon’s. His hands were still strong as they grasped Theon’s shoulders, pulled him in deeper, against his chest, where Theon could still feel the beating of his heart, even if it was fainter now.

He had never kissed a man before, let alone a dead one. In that moment, he couldn’t recall the face of a single woman he had kissed. Certainly none had made him burn this electric. He knew where the ache was coming from now. Felt it more keenly than ever. And couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed by it. “I want you,” he whispered again, pulling away. “I want to _feel_ you.”

Robb looked down at him, cupped the side of his neck. “I can’t feed from you again so soon.”

“Not there.” Theon shook his head and guided Robb’s hand down, to his waist, to where he ached so terribly. “Here.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.”

Theon’s face flushed. That…wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for. “I thought…” Robb had been so eager to kiss him, had tried in the catacombs. But perhaps he’d misread.

“No, I…uh, I…” Robb’s cheeks managed the faintest of flushes. “It’s only that it’s been several days since…I’m not sure I’ll be able to…”

“Oh,” Theon said as understanding rushed in, followed by disappointment. He’d gathered up his courage, flung his fears and doubts away, and all for nothing.

“But I could…” Suddenly, Robb lifted him by the hips, catching him off guard. Theon let out an unmanly yelp and clung to him as he carried him to the bed. It was like that night when he’d offered his blood. He had somewhat gathered himself together when Robb set him on the edge of the mattress and sank to his knees on the floor, a hand on either knee. Theon’s heart pumped faster. “Did you find my tongue objectionable…when you kissed me?”

“No,” Theon said, helping Robb to hike up his nightshirt. “Not at all.”

END PART IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next interlude will continue this scene, but again, I'm not sure when that will be. Perhaps by this weekend.


	25. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some NSFW content in this interlude.

Robb’s mouth was not unpleasant at all. Theon certainly wasn’t complaining when it enveloped him, down to the root. It still felt warm and wet to him, and if he’d been concerned about fangs, he needn’t have; Robb was extraordinarily mindful, and Theon didn’t feel so much as a prick as he began to bob his head up and down on his length. It was slow, unhurried, maddeningly so. And when Robb pulled back before he’d spent, Theon let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine, something like a hungry beast would make. The ache inside of him was still burning hot, and he needed more.

Strong hands gripped his hips, and he lifted himself to give Robb better access. A wetness found his hole, solid but malleable at the same time. He bit down on any further noises as it prodded, then began to circle, exploring places that he himself had never touched. It felt…odd, but certainly not unpleasant. Not as good as Robb’s mouth had felt on his cock, but…

Then it slipped inside, and he gasped. Bucked his hips up. A hand grasped his member—not corpse-cold, more like the chill of someone who’d been out riding in the early autumn without any gloves. And the palms were smooth, almost like a woman’s. But definitely not a woman’s. It tugged on him, stroking in time to the tongue plunging in and out of him.

The sounds were obscene.

Theon’s entire body tensed, and yet his jaw was slack, desperate little noises working their way out of his throat. “I need…I need…” He needed to be filled. It was close. It was _so_ close. And yet so far. Not enough. Just enough to take the edge off that burning ache. And the hand on his dick.

He let out a strangled cry as he finally came.

So loud it woke him up.

He lay still for a long moment, trying to catch his breath. It didn’t take too much to realize he was drenched under the covers, both from sweat and…other emissions. He threw a hand over his sweat-soaked brow, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. That dream…not a dream…it was a memory. He felt it as clear as he had that day. Every touch, every sensation. Not a dream, which meant…

With a growl, he threw the covers off and dressed. The fabric of his clothes was rough against his hypersensitive skin, still slightly damp. He didn’t bother when any of his usual ties or cravats or other adornments, instead rushing from the room at a clipped pace, fastening the final buttons as he went.

Out into the hall, down the winding staircase, out into the hall below. His boots clicked off the stones. It was the morning witching hour, with the sky turning pale purple-blue outside just before the sun was due to rise in the east. The time when all good little vampires should be crawling into their coffins.

He took the normal passage down into the crypts, not the hidden one Sansa had shown him when he’d first arrived. The normal passage lay behind a vaulted door, adorned with elaborate stone carvings of solemn faces. He passed them all as old acquaintances and took the steps down into the catacombs two at a time, hopping as he went.

It was dark down here, only every other sconce lit, but he knew his way well enough. Felt with his fingers trailing along the wall. Knew exactly which alcove held which coffin. He stopped at the second one.

“Bran,” he called into the darkness, voice full of as much authority as he could muster.

The creaking of a coffin lid was his reply.

“Bran,” he repeated. “I know you’re awake in th—I know you can hear me,” he amended.

“How can I help you, Theon?”

He jumped when he felt a presence, not in front of him, but from behind. He whirled, but Bran’s face was barely illuminated in the torchlight, thin and gaunt. Sansa said he’d never fully recovered his frame after his months-long sleep, or coma as modern doctors would call it. Still, he was as ethereally beautiful as any of them, like the intricate spinning of a spider’s web—you could appreciate it, but might rather watch from a safe distance. He had the same blue eyes as Robb and Sansa, which glowed in the dark, heavily lidded.

Theon always had to force himself not to flinch, even by instinct. “You were in my dreams.”

“No.”

“No?”

“There was a happy memory floating about you. I nudged it.”

“You nudged it?”

“Into your dream.”

“And I suppose you weren’t watching?”

In the dark it was hard to make out, but Theon caught a glimpse of upturned lips. “Of course not.”

Theon did not believe him, but there really was no point in pressing the matter. “Alright,” he said, “but in the future, I would prefer if you _didn’t_ ‘nudge’ anything into my dreams, happy or not.”

“Of course,” Bran said and melted back into the shadows.

Theon could still feel his eyes on him as he turned and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea when I'll be able to update again. Hopefully before the end of the month.


	26. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎃 Happy Halloween, lovely readers. 🎃
> 
> Although there's nothing too scary in this chapter. Unless you consider cheesy, Harlequin-esque NSFW material scary. Which I absolutely do.

Theon had never been held while he slept. Sometimes he would hold a woman he’d bedded, her back pressed against his front, the smell of her hair in his nose. But mostly he left before then. He had never been the one to _be_ held. Not since he was a very young child. And while the circumstances now were…very different, to say the least, there was a comfort to be had there. One he hadn’t realized he’d wanted.

But Robb held him now. Arms encircling his belly, pulling him flush against the hard body curled around him. There was no smell, no scent that Theon could detect. No rise and fall of Robb’s breathing. It was like being held by living stone.

Neither one slept, but just lay there, very still, until Theon felt his cock stirring again.

Three more times that night, Robb used his mouth again, his hands and tongue, to bring Theon to finish. Robb was skilled at drawing it out, guiding Theon to the edge and then pushing him back at the last moment. It made sense that a three-hundred-year-old man saw no sense in hurrying. And though Theon was left a sweaty mess at the end, when he was eventually allowed to fall over that edge, the ache continued to throb dully inside of him, never _completely_ satisfied.

After the second time, Theon had made an attempt to reciprocate. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of Robb’s breeches, fumbling with the ties. Robb stilled his movements by placing his hands overtop Theon’s. “That’s not necessary.”

“You won’t let me even try?” Theon looked up. It wasn’t that he’d had a sudden urge to have Robb’s dick in his mouth, but his pride wouldn’t let him be a passive participant. The partners he left pleased almost always came back, after all.

“Your efforts would be wasted,” Robb said. “The blood simply isn’t fresh enough to allow it.” Gently he led Theon’s hands away from his breeches and to his chest. His heart beat a slow, steady pace against Theon’s palm. “Soon it will not even be enough to keep this pumping.”

Theon nodded, remembering Jon’s story of his mother. How much blood it took to keep their bodies “alive.” A few days, he’d said, a week if they drained their victim completely.

“Besides.” Robb hooked a finger under Theon’s chin and lifted his head. “Such things are pleasant, but aren’t necessary for us.”

Theon frowned at that. “Not necessary?”

“Please don’t misunderstand. My mind and spirit wants you very badly.” Robb leaned into him, pushing him down and laying him against the mattress as he climbed atop him. “But it’s not the same with us. It’s…difficult to describe. It’s not a pull the way hunger is. It’s…an indulgence. The chance to experience a living body again.” He placed his hands against Theon’s cheeks, framing his face. “You are so alive, Theon, and beautiful.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” Theon said. “Will you…if you won’t let me pleasure you, will you at least let me…see you?”

Robb went still. “You want to see me?”

“Your body, yes.”

He could see Robb thinking, the uncertainty in those glowing eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do.”

Robb pulled back, sitting up on his haunches. His doublet was already half-undone, and with skilled fingers, he finished untying it. Then shrugged out of it in one fluid movement, like a cat stretching. The cut on his shoulder was completely gone, with no trace that it had ever been there. Nothing left but skin—pale, but not inhumanly so—taut over muscle, smooth and hard and almost serpentine as it rippled with his movements. Like some predator—a wolf, a mountain lion. Something graceful, beautiful, but frightening in its power.

He reached for his breeches, undoing the laces there as well. Then, almost like a shy schoolboy, he looked up at Theon, asking if he should continue. Theon nodded. And watched with rapt attention as Robb slid his pants down. No underthings. Just more skin. And more red hair, dark in the dim light of the room. He had a sizeable length, Theon could tell even though it was not hard. He suddenly wanted to see it hard, see the shape of it, feel it in his hand, maybe even in his mouth. The ache inside of him _burned_ , and a small groan escaped his throat.

Robb finished undressing and draped his breeches on top of his discarded doublet. Theon took in the whole of him. His hands itched to run over those thighs, up that defined stomach, to feel every inch of him. So he did. He leaned forward and laid his hands against the broad expanse of chest, feeling again for the faint heartbeat.

He thought about Robb’s story, how he become this creature he was now. “Do you ever wish you were still human?”

“Every day.” Robb laid his hand over Theon’s again. “But then again, if I’d stayed a human, I never would have met you.”

Robb brought Theon off again, this time probing deep inside him with his fingers, until he brushed against the burning ache. Until that moment, Theon hadn’t thought it had been an actual physical part of him, but Robb had literally reached inside of him to a place he’d never known existed. He saw stars.

When the sky began to lighten outside the window, Robb stood and dressed again.

“You have to go, I suppose?” Theon asked from bed. He wasn’t certain he could physically stand at the moment, let alone walk.

“I would gladly stay,” Robb said over his shoulder, “but then I would burn down to ash, and then how would I pleasure you tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Robb smirked.

Theon sank back into the pillows. “Devious.”

***

True to his word, Robb came back the next night, as soon as the sun had sunk beneath the trees. And the next night. And the next.

Each time, he was colder. Not emotionally. He remained a passionate lover, attentive. But his skin was beginning to lose its color and became less yielding under Theon’s touch. The beds of his fingernails became gray, and his hands became chilled, as if he’d just come in out of the cold. His lips lost their fullness, their softness when they brushed against Theon. His kisses became…Theon hated to admit it…not unpleasant, but _less_ pleasant.

“How often do you need to feed?” he asked one night while Robb held him.

“It depends. To maintain full faculties, once a month. Going two months without feeding is pushing it.”

“And that’s if you _don’t_ drain every last drop of a human’s blood?”

Robb’s body went stiff. “I hope you know I would never…when I fed from you, I was wounded, hovering on the edge of bloodlust. I should never have allowed myself to get to that point, but it will never happen again.”

“I just meant, you can go longer if you drink more, right?” Theon propped himself up on his elbow, twisted his torso so he could look at Robb. “What happens if you don’t feed at all? If there are no humans around? Would you…die?”

“No, but in some ways death would be better. There’s the bloodlust, but the longer we go without human blood, the weaker we become, until finally we fall into a state of listlessness to conserve energy. I’ve never witnessed this myself, but my aunt Lyanna told me about vampires who would sleep for years, as good as actual corpses, until they sensed a human nearby. Then they would become as wild animals, beyond all reasonable thought. They would even chase their prey into the sunlight and burn up.

“She told me once of the vampire who had turned her, a woman named Daenerys Targaryen, who’d been born in Old Valyeria nearly a thousand years ago. When she was newly turned, the townspeople nailed her shut in a coffin and buried her under ten feet of earth. She fell into a state of corpse-like sleep until one day she sensed the tread of humans above her, and in her frenzy to feed, she broke through her coffin and dug her way to the surface. In the span of a night, she slaughtered over half of the village.”

“I would hate for something like that to happen to you,” Theon murmured.

Robb’s eyes became unfocused. “You don’t need to be that far gone to slaughter half a village, you know. My family and I accomplished it quite handily while fully sated.”

Theon was silent. Robb never missed a chance to remind him that they were monsters, might even be considered murderers if they’d been human. A strange contradiction, that he would assure Theon that he would never hurt him in one breath, and in the next admit to killing humans without a second thought. Theon had come to recognize it as a test of sorts, prodding to make sure he truly wanted this, with all its grisly strings attached.

He sat up fully. “I want you to feed from me again.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose. “You mean when you’re—”

“When I’m recovered, yes,” Theon finished in exasperation. In truth, if he could do it now, this very moment, he would. Tilt his head to the side and offer up his neck. Just the remembrance of Robb’s teeth piercing his skin, clean and precise, sent excited thrills through his body. “But first…there’s something I need to do.”

He pulled the locket out from his nightshirt.

Robb’s eyes widened a bit. “You need to return home,” he stated.

Theon placed his hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Just to give this back to my mother. I promise to return.”

Robb nodded. “I know you will.” He leaned in and brushed cold lips over Theon’s. “Because when you get back, and I have your blood in my again, I promise, in return, to give myself to you.” He nipped at Theon’s lips, catching them lightly, just a hint of fang. “ _All_ of myself.”


	27. Chapter 27

It was a dry, cold, clear day. Theon had not been outside, proper, in a fortnight. The fresh air burned his lungs; the sun burned his eyes. He raised one hand to block it, squinting, the reins of his horse in his other hand.

“Do you need help mounting?” Patrek Mallister asked.

Theon shot him a look. The man’s voice had a sing-song quality to it, so Theon could never tell if he was being serious or not. It should have irked him more than it did.

“Can we get moving already?” Jon called to them. His horse nickered and stamped its feet impatiently. “We are burning daylight.”

“What does it matter?” Patrek sing-songed. “If Ramsay means to attack us, he doesn’t need to wait until dark. That’s why you’re with us, right? To protect us from that lout if he shows his face again?”

Jon snorted. “I would like to make good headway before we bed down for the night.”

“You mean,” Patrek said with a cheeky smile, “that you’d like to get us back to the human village as quickly as possible and be done with it. Is that it?”

“He’s right,” Theon said, putting one foot in the stirrup and pulling himself up onto his horse with practiced ease. Robb had provided a jet-black mare for his journey, strong and sleek. And easily handled, he found as he settled himself into the saddle. “We can just as easily chat while riding. Let’s not dawdle here longer than we need to.” He flashed both Patrek and Jon a smile.

In truth, he was eager to get going as well.

Robb had bid him goodbye, just before the sun rose, holding him close. “Take care of yourself, Theon. I’m sending Jon to protect you, just until you reach the edge of our lands. Patrek will continue to escort you from there. I trust both of them with my life.” He gripped Theon’s shoulders and whispered into his ear, “If you change your mind and decide not to return, send the message back with Patrek. I would at least like to know that you reached your destination safely.”

Theon had pulled back in surprise. “I _will_ return.”

“But _if_ you decide not to, I will understand.” Robb smiled sadly at him. “If we were brought together only for this short amount of time, I can accept that. All time is short when you’re immortal.”

And with those words, and a parting kiss, he’d disappeared back into the catacombs.

Theon thought about those words now as he urged his horse onwards, taking the lead as their small party passed through the courtyard’s archway. He wondered what Robb had meant, exactly. That Theon could be easily replaced? Perhaps he could. If he chose not to come back, Robb could find another human to feed from. If he _did_ choose to return, well…Robb would still need to find another human to feed from…eventually. Robb would still be walking through the hallways of this necropolis long after Theon’s bones had turned to dust.

_We really are like animals to them_ , he mused mirthlessly. _Like a man whose dog has died or run away…easy to replace either way._

“How many blood dolls has Robb had?” he asked and looked over.

Jon blinked in surprise. “Oh…um, none that I can recall,” he said. “But I am about two hundred years younger than him. I never hear him speak of any, though.”

There might have been some before, then.

Theon shook that thought off.

The day was clear, the cold dry and biting. His breath came out in puffs, and his horse’s hooves crunched through the frozen snow. The branches of the trees were bare, like gnarled fingers reaching up into the sky. Even though it had been dark when he’d been out here last, uncomfortable images still came back to him: a stone altar, ropes, blood. It seemed incongruous with the family he’d come to know these past few weeks.

“Did _they_ build that altar?” he asked. “Where Robb found me?”

“I believe it was the villagers’ idea,” Jon answered, looking uncomfortable. “They probably thought they were buying my family’s favor. In fact, it was the opposite. They tried casting off their undesirables—cripples, unwanted children and elders, people they didn’t want around anymore.”

“Poor quality sacrifices,” Theon said.

Jon grimaced. “Even before I made them swear to take no lives, they would not abide by cruelty and…betrayal. Sansa slaughtered an entire family that tried to sacrifice their daughter because she had slept with a farmer boy out of wedlock. The villagers abandoned this place not long after, I believe.” His face grew grim as he pulled ahead into the lead. “This way.”

They turned onto a path that was little more than a deer trail.

Jon rode in front and Patrek Mallister behind, with Theon in the middle like a toddling duckling. His constitution was recovered for riding, but just barely. A carriage would have been preferable, though—as had been the case on the journey here—slower and more treacherous. No matter, he wasn’t some consumptive lady, in need of smelling salts and a fainting couch. He kept his pace steady.

“Keep close,” Jon instructed, rather uselessly. “Don’t wander off.”

There wasn’t especially anywhere to wander off to, though it did remind Theon that the man who had almost killed was still out there somewhere.

“Why does Ramsay have it out for your family so badly?” Ramsay. If everyone else was calling him Ramsay, than so would Theon. Snow was just the man he’d pretended to be.

“He blames us for the death of a friend,” Jon stated.

“A criminal and conman,” Patrek added. “The world’s better off without that sort.”

“I thought the Starks didn’t kill anymore?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

“Never said they _killed_ him,” Patrek explained.

“He needed to be dealt with,” Jon finally said, drawing his horse to a crawl. “The Starks dealt with him. Which reminds me…” He pulled up alongside Theon, his hand disappearing into his riding coat. “I should have given this to you sooner.” He handed over something made of wood and metal.

Theon took his pistol, felt its familiar weight in his hand. On instinct, he checked the chambers and found them full. “Will it work on Ramsay?”

“Hit him in the head or heart and it will,” Patrek said. “When it comes to damphirs, shoot to kill.” He grinned and Jon. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Theon holstered the gun inside his coat. He already felt better with its weight there.

***

They rode until the sky turned orange, which brought them a good way into the ravine. Jon gave the call to bed down for the night, and they found a cave—possibly the same one he’d stayed in with Ramsay on his journey here, though he could find no evidence of an earlier camp. A more unsettling thought was that Ramsay had returned this way and…collected the items Theon had left behind. Considering what those items had been…

He shook off these thoughts and he rolled out his blankets.

Patrek unrolled his as well while Jon gathered kindling to start a fire.

“Will be cold tonight,” Patrek said, and though it was warmer in the cave than out, his breath still came in misty puffs. “But we could always huddle together…for warmth.”

Theon frowned.

“That was a joke,” Patrek said. “Don’t worry. I’m not into cock. Don’t have anything against anyone who does, just don’t see the appeal of it myself.”

Theon probably would have said something similar just a short while ago, and perhaps he would even have believed it.

Patrek slunk down into his blankets and got comfortable. “Think the first thing I’m gonna do when we get to civilization is buy myself some company for the night. What about you?”

Theon’s mind blanked. “Depends on what you mean by civilization,” he said after a moment of tongue-flapping.

Patrek pulled a face. “Yeah, I suppose I know what you mean. Slim pickings in the village where we’re headed.”

“Oh, there will be plenty of brothels once we get to Pyke,” Theon said, flashing a comfortable cocky grin. It felt like slipping into well-worn shoes. Or a mask. “But the girls…woof. The seadogs aren’t all out on the ocean, if you get my meaning.”

Patrek laughed, so Theon continued.

“Good thing most don’t mind being taken like dogs either.”

Patrek threw his head back and laughed even harder at that, and Theon joined him, though he felt a bit guilty. And then felt a bit silly for feeling a bit guilty. He partook in such language with his brothers all the time.

“Would you two stop talking about your dicks for five minutes?” Jon grumbled.

Theon turned his head to see him stumping back into camp, arms laden with logs.

“What about you, Jon?” Patrek asked. “You need some company too?”

Jon ignored him and began stacking the logs. “Get some rest. I’ll watch over you.”

“Always appreciated.” Patrek bunched up the blankets around his head like a pillow and laid down. He was snoring within minutes.

Theon lay awake, watching the fire come to life under Jon’s watchful eye. He was methodical, expressionless, almost like an automaton from those adventure stories Asha liked so much. His grey eyes caught the first glint of fire as he sat back.

“You don’t need to sleep?”

Jon’s gaze shot to Theon, as if surprised he was still awake. “I can go a long time without sleeping,” he answered.

Theon cradled his head against his arm. The ground was far less comfortable than the bed he’d been sleeping in the last few weeks, but if it proved a hindrance to his sleeping, he truly had let himself get soft. “I appreciate you standing watch,” he said. “Especially since you hate me so much.”

Jon frowned. “I don’t hate you.”

“You dislike me.”

“I dislike you,” he agreed.

“Because Robb would never look at you the way he looks at me?”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. Then narrowed in contempt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like prey,” Theon elaborated. “Like something he wants to eat.”

Jon shook his head. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I get it,” Theon went on. “Jeyne was right. It sounds insane when you try to explain it out loud. But I suppose even damphirs must feel it.”

“Feel what?”

Theon shrugged, as best he could with one shoulder pressed to the ground. “Like you want to be eaten.”

Jon stared at him a moment, then quickly looked away. “Go to sleep already, would you?”


	28. Chapter 28

They made it to the village without so much as a hint of Ramsay, but Jon still stayed with them until they had managed to hire a carriage to take them to the coast. “Take care,” he said as Theon and Patrek made themselves comfortable in the cabin for the long journey ahead. “I look forward to seeing you when you return.” This seemed to be directed at Patrek, but his eyes briefly raked over Theon, his expression unreadable, before he pulled back and closed the door on them.

Theon watched him out the window as he mounted up on his horse again and snapped the reins.

“Don’t take it too personally,” Patrek said. “Jon’s always dour. Comes with his circumstances, I imagine.”

Theon rather thought _he_ was part of Jon’s circumstances now. If he hadn’t suspected Jon was secretly lusting after Robb, last night’s conversation had sealed it. And perhaps not even lust in the pure, human-flesh sense of the word, but something just as intimate and just as forbidden among their kind. Jon’s desire, whatever it was, would leave Robb dead, just like his mother.

The carriage lurched forward, and he sank back in his seat.

Out the window, the village quickly gave way to snowy forest on either side of them. Not much of interest. He looked across at Patrek sitting in the opposite booth, cleaning his nails with a small knife. They would be enclosed together for some time.

“Why did you kill my brother?”

Patrek looked up, startled. Then seemed to understand what Theon was asking. “He was going to kill me.” His tone was defensive. With a disgusted snort, he went back to his nails. “Accused me of cheating at cards. I didn’t, by the way. I won fair and square. But he was belligerent and drunk, hollering and carrying on.”

“That sounds like Rodrik,” Theon said.

“I was happy to call us even and be done with it. Didn’t even want my winnings at that point. But he wasn’t keen on letting me leave. Said _I_ owed _him_. Came swinging at me with a knife, nearly got me too. I pulled my gun—maybe I coulda shot him in the leg or the arm. But my old man trained me to shoot to kill, and I did. Didn’t even think about it.”

“No, you were probably right,” Theon said.

Patrek looked up again, both eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I don’t blame you. Rodrik was…a bully and a drunkard.” He forced out a laugh that was almost, but not quite, genuine. “Honestly, you probably did me—and about a dozen other people—a favor.”

“No love lost between you, eh?”

Theon shook his head ruefully. “I certainly didn’t go through the trouble of tracking you down to get my revenge on you.” He readjusted himself on the seat, an indication he was changing topics. “So you shot him and then took his locket as payment for the card game?”

Patrek gave him an odd look. “No, I could have just stolen his purse if I wanted my earnings that bleeding badly.”

“Then why—?”

“It _wanted_ me to take it.” Patrek leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I didn’t even really realize I had it until I was well out of the bar. It was just…a compulsion, I suppose you could say. Kind of like how when one of _them_ tells you to do something…and you do it.”

Theon leaned back in his seat, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, like there were ants crawling all over him. “Is that so?”

“ _You_ haven’t felt it?” Patrek seemed genuinely surprised. “Jeyne told me you were a siren—”

“I’m not,” Theon said.

Patrek didn’t look convinced, but let it drop with a shrug. “The pearl in that locket has a will of its own. It wanted me to bring it to Winterfell. And not more than a month later, what else shows up at Winterfell but yourself, a stranger Master Robb is strangely infatuated with.”

“What are you getting at?”

Patrek smirked, as if Theon were playing stupid. He was.

“The pearl wanted you to follow it there.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve _seen_ more ridiculous things.”

Theon returned to looking out the window, but his hand wandered to his chest, where the locket lay under layers of shirt and cloak. He hadn’t liked it when he’d thought he was being manipulated by Robb, and he liked it even less now that it might actually be a pearl, an inanimate piece of jewelry, pulling his strings. All of their strings, it sounded like.

He would be happy to be rid of it. Whatever else the pearl may or may not have wanted, he, and it, were going home.

***

The ride back to Pyke was considerably shorter than the ride to Winterfell. Obviously, as Theon didn’t have to stop at every town to see if a man matching Patrek’s description had passed by recently. He found he actually enjoyed Patrek’s company. He’d worried at first, with the man’s crass attitude, that he would be like Rodrik or Maron, but he turned out to be a rather affable young man. For instance, he genuinely didn’t care that the object of Theon’s infatuation was a man. He showed more bafflement at the prospect that Robb was a vampire.

“He’s dead,” he said one night while they were drinking; Theon found he got drunk much faster than he had before. “I just…can’t imagine getting it up for a corpse. No offense intended.”

Offense taken, and Theon sniffed indignantly as the world tilted around him. “I don’t…have to _explain_ …myself to _you_.” Theon tried to jab at Patrek’s chest, but ended up poking him in the eye.

“Ow!” Patrek yelped and threw a hand over his eye and then laughed.

And then Theon laughed.

“You sound just like Jeyne,” Patrek said with a rueful shake of his head. “You newcomers…fall for their charms so easily. Maybe if you’d been serving them for as long as I have, as long as my family has, you wouldn’t be so…” He waved his hand absently in the air. To Theon’s vision, it seemed he suddenly sprouted several more fingers, fingers that blurred together as they danced. “Dazzled. You’d know just how _not_ -human they are.” Here he paused to take another drink. “My great-great-great-great grandfather…” He frowned and counted on his blurry fingers. “My ancestor served the original Lady Stark, you know. Robb and Sansa’s mother.”

“Hmm,” Theon agreed, though he was having trouble keeping up with the conversation now. It was very loud in this inn, wasn’t it?

Patrek seemed to notice. “I think you’ve got more alcohol than blood in you, my friend. Let’s get you up to bed, shall we?”

Leaning heavily on each other, they made their way up to their room, and Patrek helped Theon take off his boots before coaxing him into the bed, then climbed in next to him, still fully clothed, and pulled the blankets over them. As always, Patrek fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and his rank beer breath came out in gasps against Theon’s face. Theon didn’t mind it overly much, though. It was the first time in a long, long while that he had shared a bed with someone with no sexual undertones. Distantly he wondered if this was what it was like to have a brother who you didn’t hate and who didn’t hate you. Distantly, he wished he’d had a brother like Patrek.

***

Over the next few days, the scenery outside the carriage window gradually turned from snow to slush to swampy marsh. The air grew thicker, tinged with the scent of salt. They reached Pyke on the sixth day of travel.

Stepping out of the carriage and onto the uneven cobbles of his hometown was an odd sensation. It felt like he’d been gone a lifetime, but in reality it had hardly been two months. He’d forgotten how _grey_ everything looked.

He arranged for Patrek to stay at an inn, conveniently located next to a brothel. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Patrek asked, once again. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”

“You know where I’ll be,” Theon said, pointing to the manor up on the cliff, which towered over the village, casting its grey shadow over everything. “If I don’t return by tomorrow, my father or one of my uncles has probably killed me and you should return to Winterfell without me.” He grinned to show he was joking. Half-joking, at any rate.

Patrek nodded his understanding and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Theon nodded back. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to tell his mother, Asha, or his father. About where he’d been, about how he’d gotten the pearl back, about any of it. He wasn’t afraid they wouldn’t believe him. Quite the opposite. The idea that they would hear his story and _know_ it for true… _that_ filled him with terror.

He took a deep breath and began the climb up to the lifeless house on the cliff.


	29. Chapter 29

When he’d been a child, with the storms that rolled in from the sea battering the old cliff-side manor, Theon had been afraid the entire building would collapse into the ocean. He spent many nights awake in bed, feeling the house move and groan in the wind.

He had the same sensation now as the floorboards creaked under his boots, that the house was swaying. Unsteady. The smell of aged wood and dry rot hit his nose, overpowering. He’d never been aware of it before. Strange how you had to leave and return to notice these things.

“I see you’re home, baby brother.”

Theon looked up to see Asha leaning over the second-story banister. She was dressed much the same as she’d been the day he’d left, in a man’s riding outfit. Her heavy boots clomped on the steps of the winding staircase as she made her way down to him. She was a woman of harsh edges, but her face softened as he took a few steps up to meet her.

“I’m glad you’ve come back alive and in one piece.” She looked him up and down skeptically. “You _are_ in one piece, aren’t you?”

“More or less.” He reached under his shirt and pulled out the locket. “I found the pearl.”

Her eyes widened. “Just in time.”

“Just in time?”

She cocked her angled chin for him to follow her upstairs. “Come. Mother’s taken a turn.”

“A turn?” he repeated again. If she’d noticed the panic in his voice, she didn’t say anything. He followed after her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Pneumonia, the doctor thinks,” Asha explained, eyes trained forward as she led the way up the second-story landing. “She’s been feverish for weeks, wracked with coughing fits. She’s not been lucid.” She shook her head. “The loss of Rodrik came as a great shock to her.” Alannys Greyjoy had never been the greatest health to begin with.

Theon gripped the locket tight as a wave of guilt washed over him. “I should have been here for her.”

“I’ve been caring for her,” Asha said, with just a hint of reproach in her voice. “I told her you’d been sending regular letters and that you were well.” She arched an eyebrow. “Did you even _think_ to send a letter?”

He hadn’t.

Together they made their way down the long hall, where Alannys kept her rooms.

Either the original architect or the original builders must have had unsteady hands, because hardly anything was straight in Greyjoy Manor. Angles and hard lines, yes, but not straight. Corners met at just slightly off angles. Floorboards never quite lined up. And rooms and hallways seemed to tilt, oftentimes in very different directions. It had never helped the sensation that the entire building was moving underfoot.

They came to their mother’s room, the door’s green paint chipping, the door itself set crooked in its hinges.

Asha bid Theon wait outside while she knocked of the door. “Mother,” she called. “It’s Theon. He’s returned.”

“Theon?” a reedy voice called from within.

Asha nudged the door open. It creaked horribly.

The musty smell was worse here, accompanied by the usual scents of sickness—sweat, mothballs, stale air. Theon blocked his nose to it as he strode him.

Alannys was in her bed, a thin figure dressed in her nightgown and cap. Her bony knees and feet stuck up under the layers of heavy blankets. Her face was gaunt, her eyes slightly glazed as she looked up. And then seemed to clear as they landed on Theon.

“Theon.” She reached out with one shaking hand. “Oh, Theon, my little boy.”

Theon sat on the edge of the bed and gripped her hand back. It felt so fragile in his own. “It’s me, Mother. I’m back.”

“You’re so pale.” Her thin eyebrows drew together. “You must eat.”

“I will, Mother.” He held out the locket to her. “I brought you Rodrik’s locket.”

For a moment she stared at it dangling from his hand, eyes distant and unrecognizing. Then her mouth fell open in a small “o” as she seemed to realize what he was showing her. She cupped her hands, and Theon laid the locket within them.

“I went through some trouble to find it. Nothing too dangerous, mind you,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Alannys opened the clam-shell clasp and looked at the black pearl inside. Just…looked at it, for the longest time without saying anything.

“Is everything alright, Mother?” Asha asked, coming up behind them.

Alannys didn’t respond.

Theon suddenly had a terrible vision, that the locket was entrancing his mother as they sat there, stealing her mind from her. He reached out to take it back, to end its evil influence, but she came alive in an instant and jerked it back out of his reach.

“Sorry,” she said, her face and frame softening as she forced a smile. “I just…had never thought to see it again.”

Theon placed a hand on her shoulder—it felt like he would break it if he applied to much pressure—and she looked up at him with wide eyes. “There’s something about that locket, isn’t there, Mother?”

“You know this, Theon,” Asha huffed. The toe of her boot beat a steady rhythm against the floorboards. “It’s been passed down our father and his father and all the way back to the first Greyjoys.”

“The first Greyjoys,” Theon agreed. He put a gentle—oh so gentle—hand under his mother’s chin. “Are the stories true, what they say about the first Greyjoys, Mother? Were they…mers?”

Alannys stared up at him. “No,” she answered.

Theon thought of all that had happened since he’d gotten the locket back—the visions, the strange dreams. “Then…”

“The Harlaws were.”

His question trailed off.

“Long ago, of course,” Alannys went on. “Before they mixed with humans. They left their gills and scales behind in the sea…but not _everything_.” Her eyes were unusually canny as they stared into his, and he was certain she knew what he’d seen and felt. “Strange fate brought the descendants of mers together with the descendants of humans who had stolen a mer pearl.” She smiled thinly.

“Then…I am— _we_ are…” His cheeks felt warm. Sansa had been right.

“You seriously didn’t know?” Asha’s voice surprised him. He turned to see her standing with one hand on her hip. “I know he’s a _boy_ , Mother, but he’s always been your baby. I’d have thought you would have told him.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked defensively. And then her implication set in. “ _You_ knew?”

“Bedtime stories as a child,” Asha answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “How the sirens used to lure men to their deaths and cause them to crash their ships on the rocks.”

“Yes, of course, but I always thought they were just stories.”

Asha cocked her head. “Something’s happened to make you think they aren’t. Just stories I mean.” She smirked. “Been out seducing men, baby brother?”

Theon felt his face flush.

“Don’t worry,” she added with a cheeky wink. “Neither have I.”

He turned back to his mother when he felt her fragile hand grip his back. She was pushing the locket back into his hands. “Take it. It’s yours now.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, uncomprehending for a moment. Then tried to push it back to her. “What? No, no—it’s yours, Mother. I—I came back to give it to you.”

“Take it, Theon,” Asha said with a long-suffering sigh. “Who else is it going to go to? _Maron_?” She scoffed.

“Then—then you should have it.” Theon turned and held it out to her.

But her hands remained on her hips, unimpressed. “I appreciate the gesture, but Mother wants _you_ to have it.”

Alannys closed her hands around Theon’s. “Take it with you,” she said in a trembling voice. “You’ll be able to use it to check in on your old mother from time to time.”

“Check in on…?”

“When you return to wherever it is you need to return to.”

“It probably wouldn’t kill you to send a letter every so often either,” Asha said.

Theon looked from one woman to the other. Asha, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. His mother, looking so fragile and small on her sickbed. “I had…meant to return,” he admitted, though he wasn’t sure how either of them knew that. “But…at least let me stay until you are well again, Mother.”

Asha bit her lip and glanced away.

“You will be waiting a long time, in that case,” Alannys said.

“Don’t say that.” He felt his own voice tremble. “I’m here now, Mother. I know I shouldn’t have left you, but I’m here now. You’ll be up and walking again in no time.”

“The doctor tells me I might recover if I go somewhere drier, where the air is more agreeable.” A wracking cough shook her frame then, and he heard the whistle of air through her lungs as if they were organ pipes. “The Reach, perhaps, or Dorne.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I have always wanted to see other places.”

He felt Asha’s hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of her, Theon.”

“But…”

“Mother wants to see Dorne, and I’m going to take her. It will be nice to get off this stuffy old island, at least. It’s seemed to do _you_ wonders.” The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. Neither Alannys nor Asha expected the trip to the Continent to help.

“Take the pearl,” Alannys insisted. “I won’t need it to be able to see _you_ , my love.”

Theon remembered Robb’s story of seeing his own mother murdered, and Jon’s story of how his mother had died bringing him into this world, and he realized he had not embraced her in many years, nor told her he loved her. So he embraced her now, felt the fragile bones of her shoulders, the surprisingly tight grip of her hands as she hugged him back.

“I will. And I’ll write, I promise. I love you, Mother.”


	30. Chapter 30

He stayed through the week, settling his affairs, such as they were. Packing those items he wanted to bring with him, mostly clothes, which Patrek complained about as the chests were packed into the carriage. Theon shut him up by giving him more coin to spend at the brothels.

When he was not packing or settling his affairs, he spent time with his mother and Asha. Alannys seemed to have recovered some of her strength, enough to take meals in the dining room or to take walks along the cliff side, providing the wind was not too strong and the weather not too damp. Asha said it was the most active she’d been since she’d taken ill some weeks ago.

Of his father he saw very little. Occasionally he would come to meals, and on his first day back, Balon had even given him the slightest of approving nods—the very slightest—and commented how Rodrik’s shade could be at peace now that he’d been avenged. If only he’d known that Theon had ridden here with the very man who’d killed Rodrik.

A mere two months ago, Theon would have been ecstatic to receive such high praise. Now he felt like a dog thrown bones and scraps from a table. There was no true meat to his words, and Theon received them with an equally tepid response of, “Let us hope,” that didn’t seem to stir Balon one way or the other. Just the same disinterest he’d been doled out since he was a child.

He’d be lying if he didn’t admit it stung. Ever since he’d sworn to return Rodrik’s locket, he’d had hopes of returning to a hearty welcome, a clap on the shoulder, a toast to him, words of fatherly approval and commendation. But Balon remained as cold as any corpse at Winterfell—colder. Theon felt weak for having ever expected anything else.

And of his uncles, only the Reverend Aeron Greyjoy was about. Euron and Victarion had taken to sea. It was with no heavy heart that Theon was heading out before seeing either one of _them_. Aeron’s sermons were enough. Maron had joined on with Victarion’s crew, probably under the delusion that he would receive preferential treatment. Victarion wasn’t given to nepotism, and Theon imagined Maron might even now be regretting his choice. Though not nearly as much as if he’d decided to join with Euron instead.

It was a dreary, overcast day when he bid a final farewell to his mother and Asha.

“Don’t think I’ve seen the sun shine once since we’ve been here,” Patrek commented as Theon stepped into the carriage cabin, causing it to rock; it was already riding low with all the added weight of his luggage. “I’ll be looking forward to getting back to Winterfell.”

“Me too,” Theon agreed.

And he was.

Except for his mother, he was not sad to leave any of this behind. Even Asha, whom he knew could look after herself. Still, his heart ached as the carriage began to move. Not that he might never again see the town where he’d lived most of life, but that he might not and would not be bothered.

“And how did you enjoy your stay?” he asked to shake off these thoughts.

“Well, I was never lonely,” Patrek said. “Though for the last few days, my dick’s burned something awful when I piss.” He gave Theon a cheeky grin that made it difficult to tell if he was joking or not, but given Theon’s past experience with the whores near the docks, it was entirely possible he wasn’t.

***

Despite being more weighed down than when they’d set out, they still made good time. As they left the coast behind and climbed into the foothills, the temperature dropped but the air became strangely more breathable. The road, though far from the main thoroughfares, had been trodden enough that the snow wasn’t too much of an impediment. Though the carriage’s wheels did occasionally slip on the compact ice, nearly sending them down steep slopes. Nonetheless, they reached the village—Winter Town, Patrek said it was called—unharmed.

Patrek offered the innkeeper extra coin to have all the traveling chests hauled up to their room for the night. “We’ll have all that sent up to the castle the slow way,” he said. “If we can find enough villagers willing to come nearer than this. Sometimes enough money gives them the courage, though as you can imagine, good will is a little thin.” He quirked his lips as he watched the last of the chests lugged up the stairs. “Are you sure you need _all_ of this?”

“ _All_ of it,” Theon said with a decisive nod. “And if I have to hear you bitch about it anymore, I’m going to need another drink. And you’re already paying for my first one.”

“Oh, I am?” Patrek gave him a good-natured shove. A similar shove from either Rodrik or Maron would have sent him tumbling to the ground and left a bruise on his shoulder.

Theon just grinned and shoved him back. “Don’t you need to send a letter to the castle or something to let them know we’re here?”

Patrek waved his hand. “They already know, I’m sure. Bran will have been watching for us to return.”

“Bran?”

“He can see through beasts’ eyes. Probably saw us the minute we crossed over onto Stark land. Jon will be here to escort us back just as soon as he can get his damphir ass into town. In the meantime, don’t…” He looked around, swinging his head for dramatic effect. Or maybe not. “Don’t _wander_ off, alright? On your own.”

“You think Ramsay’s still out there?”

“I _know_ he is,” Patrek said through gritted teeth. “I can feel it.” He patted the side of his coat, where he kept his own pistol holstered. “He probably won’t cause trouble in town, but still, it might not hurt to sleep with your pistol under your pillow tonight, eh?”

Theon thought about how probably more Greyjoys slept with guns under their pillows than didn’t, including Reverend Aeron Greyjoy. He nodded solemnly, and then they both headed into the bar.

It was warm inside tonight, a respite against the chill. It was as if the last three months had not even touched the small inn. The same fire still crackled away in the corner. Theon thought he even recognized some of the patrons from the last time he’d been here. Still not a friendly face among them. In fact, the men sitting at the front bar moved when he and Patrek sat down next to them.

“I’m used to it,” Patrek said with a smirk.

Theon remembered how the innkeeper had told him to stay clear of Patrek Mallister and the “creatures” he served. Still, the man took their money and served them the bitter stuff that passed for ale so far from civilization, though he didn’t speak a word and would not meet either of their gazes.

Patrek was unperturbed. He took a long pull from his cup and winced as he swallowed. “God awful stuff,” he said with a belch. Then turned to Theon. “What’s _in_ all those suitcases anyhow?”

“This again?” Theon rolled his eyes and took a long pull himself.

“I just mean…it can’t really all be clothes, can it?”

“Of course not. I have a few guns, books, that sort of thing.”

“But it’s _mostly_ clothes, isn’t it?”

“And if it is?”

“If it is, you’ve got more clothes than a duchess.”

Theon prickled at that. “That’s not really any of your business, is it?”

“I mean, besides the fact I had to lug them all the way here?”

“You didn’t _lug_ anything. Not with your own hands.”

“Fair enough.” Patrek paused here to take another drink. “You’re right. It’s not matter to me. I think it’s sweet that you want to dress up for your beau.”

“I—what? Excuse me?”

Patrek shrugged. “None of my business.”

Theon’s cheek flared, mostly at how easily Patrek had found him out. He’d always been a bit of a peacock, much his brothers’—and Asha’s—disapproval. He’d spent more than he should have over the years on his clothes, and if he was going to continue living in the castle, then he would not be confined to old nightshirts and plain daywear. He’d have an entire wardrobe to choose from. And if perhaps Robb enjoyed a particular outfit or two from that wardrobe…

“But I do have to ask…” Patrek set his mug down and drummed his fingers on the countertop. “Do you intend to become Robb’s blood doll?”

Theon’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“I’m just asking because it’s a serious thing.” His fingers stilled. “I’ve been serving the Starks my entire life. My father served the Starks before me. And my son—God willing I should ever have one—will likely serve the Starks as well.” He looked up sharply. His entire face had changed, become something more feral and animal-like. “ _That’s_ commitment. As much as a mortal can make. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Theon began to nod, then realized that perhaps he didn’t.

“Whether you’re mortal or not, _forever_ is a long time. _Forever_ is not something to be taken lightly, not when only have so much time. Nor when you have endless time stretching out before you.” Without taking his eyes off Theon, he lifted his mug and drank. Rivulets of ale ran down the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Theon met his gaze. He did not allow himself to flinch at this odd behavior.

When Patrek pulled his glass away, a smile graced his lips. “I’m only looking out for my masters, you know,” he said. “And you, too. I like you.” He leaned forward, poked Theon’s chest. “But if you dare break any of their unbeating hearts, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment more before bursting into laughter.

They did up needing another round, as Theon had threatened, and then another after that. Theon was thoroughly drunk by the time they stumbled from the bar up to their room. Patrek was the one hanging off of him this time, wailing a sea chantey Theon had taught him—much to the chagrin of the innkeeper and patrons, though nobody had gathered up the courage to tell them to quiet it down. Theon practically hauled him up the stairs. He’d gotten better at holding his liquor, and he felt his strength returning more and more every day.

_It’s been about a month_ , he mused as he kicked open the door and dragged a still-singing Patrek into their room. _Robb will be able to feed from me again_.

A thrill coursed through his body, and he felt himself touching the spot on his neck where Robb had fed before. And this time…

The dull ache surged inside of him, and his knees almost buckled. The thought of both Robb’s teeth and his cock inside him made him as lightheaded.

He set Patrek down on the edge of the bed and watched the man flop over, making snow angels on the sheets. _Do you intend to become Robb’s blood doll?_

Did he? He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, that it didn’t appeal to him. But Patrek was right. Forever was…forever. The way Jeyne and everyone else spoke of it, it sounded almost like a marriage of sorts. And Robb’s story was reason enough not to rush into anything that might even resemble a marriage.

He paced to the lone window looking out onto the town square below. The pane was ill-fitted; a draft did not have to work too hard to get inside. He leaned against the sill.

The thought of becoming a vampire himself did not appeal to him. And he supposed it shouldn’t. It would definitely appeal to his uncle Euron, which was why he had conspicuously not mentioned who he’d been with these past few months or where. Balon had been singularly uninterested, luckily for him, and neither Asha nor Alannys had pried too much. The idea of Euron—or any of his uncles—taking an interest in the Starks made his stomach roil, a protectiveness rise up in him.

If he didn’t become a blood doll, perhaps he could serve Robb the way Patrek did.

Speaking of whom…he really should help the man out of his boots and coat, since he hadn’t heard any rustling to imply Patrek was even trying to divest himself.

Theon turned.

And froze.

He had not heard anyone enter—not the creak of the door, not even the approach of footsteps outside in the hall. And yet there was a man, dressed in black coat and wide-brimmed hat, so dark he almost disappeared into the shadows.

Ramsay Snow.

He had Patrek by his hair, a blade drawn to his throat. Perhaps the same blade with which he’d so handily cut Theon’s flesh at the altar.

For a moment no one moved. No words were spoken. No one breathed.

Theon raised his hand, pleading. “Wa—”

Ramsay yanked the blade across Patrek’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter for Part V.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for general Ramsay creepiness.

A fountain of blood sprang from Patrek’s neck, cascaded down his throat and chest. The only sound he made was a gurgling as Ramsay released his hold on his hair and he collapsed onto the bed. The sheets blossomed into red.

Ramsay grinned and lifted his head enough that Theon caught just a glimpse of his mania-filled eyes before he was lunging forward with inhuman speed.

Theon’s mind was still processing what had just happened—what was happen _ing_ —but his body worked on instinct. His hand went for his pistol. His fingers cocked the barrel. All in a flash. He brought the gun up and squeezed the trigger, just as a hand grabbed his wrist and twisted.

The gunshot rang through the room with the force of a small explosion.

The hand on his wrist tightened, wrenched. The gun fell from Theon’s grip.

“Ow,” Ramsay said, though the way his manic grin faltered suggested more than “ow.” With his free hand, he reached down and felt his thigh. In the dark, Theon could not tell how bad the bullet wound was, but Ramsay’s hand came away coated liberally in blood. He had probably nicked a major artery.

Would it kill a damphir though?

Ramsay snarled and shoved Theon up against the window, back flush to the glass. His blood-soaked hand latched over Theon’s mouth, stifling any screams. Not that anyone was likely to answer anyway. Certainly not any of the patrons downstairs. The cloying, coppery scent of Ramsay’s blood filled his nose. He tried to struggle, but knew from past experience that the man’s grip was stronger than human.

“I’d kill you for that,” Ramsay hissed, “if I didn’t need you alive.”

Theon wriggled in his grasp, feeling again like a child under his brothers’ torment.

Ramsay’s grin slowly worked its way back onto his face. “I must say, I’m surprised you _are_ still alive. I expected them to have drained you completely. And I know they _did_ feed on you. I can smell it on you.” He took in a deep breath. “Their reek is all over you. And judging by the fact that you actually came back…” He leaned in close. His sickly-sweet breath ghosted over Theon’s ear. “I’m guessing you _liked_ it.”

An instinctive need to protest rose up in Theon’s chest, but he tamped it down. Even if he could speak, he would not justify himself to this man.

“Well, I’m glad they liked my bait, at least. It means they’ll come for you again. At the very least, _that_ should get their attention.” He cocked his head toward the bed, toward Patrek’s body, the blood dripping down the sheets and onto the floor. “See, I learned from last time. I tried to ambush them on _their_ territory, when really I should be making _them_ come to _me_.”

Theon tried to bite the hand covering his mouth. A womanish tactic, he knew, but if he could hurt Ramsay long enough to get his gun…

Ramsay saw what he was doing and laughed. “Trying to bite me now? Really? Like one of _them_?” His mouth spread open in a manic grin, and Theon realized he was showing off his fangs. “Sorry, darling, but you don’t quite have the teeth for that, do you? Here, let daddy help you.”

For one terrible moment, Theon thought Ramsay meant to bite him, but instead he forced his hand into Theon’s mouth. His fingers wriggled like fat worms invading his throat, choking him as they worked deeper. In panic, Theon bit down, but that only seemed to amuse Ramsay more.

“Guess I won’t be sticking my cock in there anytime soon.”

The acrid taste of blood flooded Theon’s mouth. It was thick and gagged him in the back of his throat. He suddenly had a terrible thought. Damphir blood was poison to vampires, but might it also be poison to humans as well?

His thoughts must have been mirrored on his face, because Ramsay just grinned. “Now, we’ve been over this, sweetie. I need you _alive._ ” He pushed his fingers in deeper; his nails scratched the back of Theon’s throat, causing him to gag. “But there’s still a lot of fun we can have together. Isn’t there?”

END PART V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters next week. Probably.


	32. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, so sorry for the delay. I said I would have new chapters this week, but I've been busy _and_ dealing with writer's block. The good news is, I got through it and now only have a chapter and an epilogue left to write.
> 
> In the meantime, here's the next Interlude. Forgive all the italics, but it seemed the best way to distinguish flashbacks from the rest of it. There's not much in the way of NSFW material, though there's unrequited incestuous pining. (The Victorians didn't really think of first cousins together as incest, or at least the taboo kind; both Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Darwin married their first cousins.) Regardless, if it squicks you out...well, there you have it.

Jon took one last look around his room to make sure everything was in order. It was. He owned precious little to begin with, by his own preference. The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and turned.

_I won’t be gone forever,_ he thought, almost as if reassuring his room—or himself—that he would return.

_He didn’t know when he’d first realized he wanted Robb. It seemed to have come on so quickly, though maybe it had been simmering for a long time. He’d never known his father or his mother. Uncle Benjen had been the closest thing to a father he’d had growing up._

_Sansa had always been slightly aloof. Cold wasn’t the right word, but she guarded her heart. Jon always got the feeling she felt more than she let on._

_Arya was the opposite. Unpredictable, enigmatic. She laughed freely, at things she shouldn’t. Trust didn’t come easy to her either, but she was open with those she did. There was a time when Jon thought he might have a child’s fancy for her. But in the end, her mercurial nature kept her scarce about the castle._

_Bran had always terrified him, as much as he hated to think such things. And Rickon…Rickon was Rickon._

_But Robb…Jon had always looked to him for guidance, for comfort. Robb was the older brother, watching out for him, watching out for all of them. Always there, never changing, as steady as the stones that made up the castle itself. Just as sturdy and as big, it seemed._

Jon made his way down the hall, suitcase in hand. He could hear Robb’s voice now, muffled behind a door. And also Theon’s voice. Of course. He almost didn’t continue, thought about turning and leaving without saying a word to Robb. A letter. A letter would be more eloquent than he ever could be. Yes, he’d go back to his room, sit down at his desk, and write out a…

No. He shook his head. This wasn’t the sort of thing to do in writing. He bunched up his shoulders then released the tension with a long, drawn-out breath. Strode the last dozen paces to the receiving room, and knocked on the door.

_He remembered the first time he’d seen Robb feed. Usually they took great pains to hide such things from plain sight; blood feeding was something private, Sansa had told him, though he hadn’t understood at the time. Not until that day he’d heard the noises. Whimpering, soft moans._

_Was somebody hurt? Did they need help? As he drew nearer the source, he felt less certain. They were almost like the sounds he made when he was alone in his room, under the covers of his bed, taking himself in hand. He was not yet quite the age Robb had been when he’d died._

_It was one of the guest rooms. The door was slightly ajar, not even enough for light to seep out through any small crack, but enough that when Jon pressed on it, it swung inwards. Slowly. His nose had always been sensitive, and the smell of blood wafted over him. He held his breath against it and peered inside._

_Robb’s red hair caught in the light of the candles, his face buried in the neck of a young woman as he held her tight in his arms. The look on the woman’s face…eyes closed, mouth open...that’s where those throaty moans and whimpers were coming from…Jon had never seen such a look of bliss on **anyone’s** face. Her slim fingers clutched at Robb’s broad shoulder, and another smell came to Jon. Something thick and sweet that clung to the back of his throat. Everything about it should be unpleasant, and yet it wasn’t. Far from it. He felt himself reacting to it._

_To this day, he was still uncertain whether Robb knew he’d been watching. He had to. If nothing else, he must have heard Jon’s retreating footsteps as he’d run back to his own room._

_Had it been that day? When he realized? He’d since dreamed that it was him being held, him with that blissful look on his face as Robb fed from him._

_Well, whenever it had happened, Jon had quickly realized it could never be. They were family—cousins by blood, yes, but as good as brothers. Robb would only ever think of him as a brother. As he should. The blood that ran through Jon’s veins, that tied them together as family, could kill him. Just like it had killed his mother._

“Come in,” Robb’s voice said now, drawing Jon back to the present. Standing at the door, fist raised to knock again. Instead he grasped the handle and pulled.

There was Robb, tall, dark against the fireplace. There was no fire now—not in summer—but even still, Jon could still see him the dark. Every angle of his face, even the color of his eyelashes—dark, not red like his hair—as he turned to Jon. And Theon, of course.

Fucking. Theon.

_He knew exactly when he’d realized he was going to fuck Theon Greyjoy. It was the day he’d found out Sansa had also been fucking Theon. “Helping me work out my blood feeding energy so Jeyne can recover her energy,” in her words, mentioning it as casually as if he’d been helping her choose an outfit._

_The first time they’d fucked, Jon had not even asked in so many words. Just caught Theon in the hallway and pushed him up against the wall so their noses were almost touching. Theon was canny in some way but hopelessly oblivious in others, and Jon could only hope it would be the former in this case. Otherwise he would be forced to put into words what he wanted. And why._

_It had taken a moment or two, but Theon had eventually bridged the gap between them and pressed his lips against Jon’s. Jon kissed back harder, and Theon kissed back harder still. “In my room,” Theon said._

_Robb had to have known what was going on between them. But if he did, he never spoke of it. Robb did not feel jealousy, and it baffled Jon to no end. Maybe because Robb had endless amounts of love and protection to dole forth to his family, the members of their household, anyone at all really. Maybe when you had endless amounts of love, you didn’t guard it so closely, like a dragon protecting its hoard._

_Theon was not Jon’s first. The idea was laughable. But he was the first to understand, in unspoken terms, what Jon needed. Because there were no illusions between them. Theon knew he was a stand-in, and he knew how to play his role. Or so Jon had assumed._

_He’d been startled, to say the least, when Theon had flipped their positions. He’d never thought Theon could be so…forceful. It had all been playacting before…hadn’t it? But not that time, when Theon had sunk down onto him and ridden him hard into the mattress. It had been…it had been what he’d been looking for, honestly, to be used and dominated so thoroughly. He’d never thought…in that way_ …

“Jon, do you need something?” Robb asked, again bringing him back to the present.

He blinked. “I…wanted to speak with you.”

Theon’s eyes flicked to the suitcase in his hands. Canny. Thank God. He made to stand from the couch he had draped himself over. “Jeyne wanted to speak with me about something,” he said as he dismissed himself. “I better find her before she goes to bed for the night.” And then he was gone. And it was just Jon and Robb. And the silence between them.

“Are you going somewhere?” Robb finally asked.

Jon shifted the suitcase from his right hand to his left. “North,” he answered. “I’m leaving tonight.”

“That’s very sudden.”

“I needed to go before I lost my nerve.”

“Your nerve?” Robb stepped closer. “Jon, is everything alright?”

Jon felt the indescribable need to run, but he held firm. “I guess I just need to spend some time alone,” he said. “Figuring out what I want.”

Robb was silent a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. “For how long?”

“I can’t say,” Jon said. “I won’t be alone, though. I’m sure Rickon or Uncle Benjen won’t let me fend for myself the entire time.” He smiled weakly.

Again Robb was silent.

“I’ll be fine,” Jon said, and he meant it. “I’ve realized…” He took a deep breath. “I’ve realized I’ve been unfair to you, Robb, and to myself. There are things I can’t give you and things you can’t give me—things you shouldn’t be _expected_ to give me.”

“Jon…”

Jon shook his head and Robb didn’t continue. Thank God for that as well. “I don’t want you to think I’m running away. This isn’t running away. I’ll return. I promise. But these thoughts I’ve been harboring…these feelings I haven’t allowed myself to feel…it’s like a big…knotted ball of twine. It’s going to take some time to untangle.”

Robb nodded. “I understand.”

Jon looked up into his eyes and saw that he did. He understood. Entirely. A peculiar mix of dread, shame, and relief enveloped him, caused him to shudder. Robb could be canny in his own way. Sometimes.

“Thank you,” Jon murmured. _For understanding. For not saying it out loud._

He was taken by surprise when Robb pulled him in for a hug. “Take care, Jon. I hope you find what—or who—you’re looking for.”

“So do I,” Jon said and hugged back. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Robb said. “And I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking a little sad for Jon, but maybe he'll find somebody up in that great Northern expanse to help him untangle his thoughts. ;) Let me know if you'd like it to be somebody in particular.


	33. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this and the next few chapters, on account of Ramsay. This chapter contains:
> 
> -Implied rape  
> -Implied murder  
> -Implied necrophilia  
> -And just...generally unpleasant things

Theon had no idea where they were, but it wasn’t too far from the village. He knew this because they hadn’t traveled for long—Theon riding on Ramsay’s horse, wrists bound behind his back and burlap sack over his head, while Ramsay led the horse on foot by its reins. The entire way—little over an hour—he heard Ramsay cursing and drawing in the occasional sharp breath. The bullet to his leg had not succeeded in killing him, but it had wounded him badly enough.

Eventually Ramsay had the horse stop altogether and pulled Theon down from the saddle with little care. Then hauled him through ankle-deep snow, using the rope around his wrists. Theon had no idea where they might be headed, until he hit his shin against something sharp and went sprawling.

“Watch out for the steps,” Ramsay sneered and dragged him back to his feet.

The snow turned to a flat surface—floorboards from the way they creaked underfoot. To his left came a different sort of creaking, the long, drawn-out moan of hinges that had not moved in years. Before Theon could orient himself, however, Ramsay shoved him forward. His shoulder slammed into something solid.

“Mind the door,” Ramsay said with more childish glee in his voice. He grabbed Theon’s elbow and steered him around the solid thing—wall or doorjamb, Theon guessed.

If it weren’t for the sudden lack of wind howling all around them, Theon would not have guessed they were inside at all. It was still bitterly cold. Another rough shove from behind sent him to his knees. He made a token effort to get back up, but with his hands bound, it proved difficult. A moment later, the bag was ripped from his head.

They were inside. A cabin. A small one-room cabin. Hardly even a shack. In one corner was a bed, in another a table with two chairs. Some sad, bare shelves along one wall. An empty fireplace. A single dirty window with a ratty old curtain. That was it.

From behind, he heard the rustling of fabric, but couldn’t turn his head well enough to see. It didn’t matter, because a moment later, Ramsay walked around him, completely ignoring him, and draped his long coat over one of the chairs before lowering himself onto the bed with a groan. Then he began to undo his belt.

Theon’s throat clamped closed, remembering Ramsay’s threat from back at the inn.

Ramsay glanced over and caught him watching. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said with a grin that was somehow both amused and disgusted, “but you’ll have to suck my cock some other time. Right now I’ve got to deal with something else.”

He slid his breeches down to the knee and prodded the bullet wound on his thigh. Theon’s pistol had put a decently sized hole there. If he’d been human, he would have bled out within minutes back at the inn.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Closing up but…the bullet’s still in there.” He pulled out a knife—Patrek’s blood had been cleaned from it—and set the blade tip against the wound. He began digging in, gritting his teeth. Blood ran over his thigh, his hand, the knife. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the occasional grunt of pain escaped through his teeth.

Theon looked away until he heard a small, dull ping, the spent bullet hitting the floor.

Ramsay sat panting for almost an entire minute after that. Then he seemed to regain himself and it was if nothing had happened. He pulled up his breeches without cleaning out the wound and buckled his belt. Then he finally turned to Theon, still kneeling on the floor.

“I intend to pay you back for that.”

“Can’t you call us even?” Theon said, forcing a smirk. He didn’t feel like smirking. Patrek was dead because of this man. Murdered. “Considering you carved me up and left me for dead and all.”

Ramsay waved his hand dismissively. “That wasn’t _personal_. And I _wouldn’t_ have left you for dead if things had gone as planned. If I’d managed to kill that fucker Robb Stark. I got him pretty good, though, didn’t I?” He stood. “I’ll get him this time, and anyone else he brings. His cunt of a sister. Hope she shows up. I hope _all_ of them show up. I want to fuck every one of their severed heads.”

Theon ground his teeth together. “Because they killed your friend? Your mentor? That’s why you hate them so much, isn’t it?”

Ramsay stared at him oddly for a moment. Then grabbed Theon by the scruff of his neck. “ _You_ don’t get to talk about Heke.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” Theon spat, “but if he was anything like you, he probably deserved what he got.”

Ramsay threw him to the floor and delivered a kick to his ribs. Theon got the distinct impression Ramsay was struggling to hold himself back. As it was, the kick caused something to crack and pain to lace up into his chest. He writhed against the ropes binding his wrists together.

“Do you know where we are, Greyjoy?”

_How could I know that? There was a bag over my head the whole way here_ , Theon wanted to demand, but couldn’t find the breath to.

“This is the cabin where I was born.” Ramsay’s boots clomped on the floor, circling around. “My mother raised me here, after my father killed her husband and used his blood to plant his seed in her body. It was not easy for her. The townspeople hated her for birthing a monster, and they hated me even more for _being_ that monster. It was very lonely for us, out here by ourselves.”

He knelt down in front of Theon.

“Until one day a stranger came to our door. At first Mother didn’t want to let him in. She was right to be suspicious. Sometimes the townspeople would get it into their heads to…bother us. But this man had heard the villagers talking about us, and he said he was a vampire hunter. He said I was the perfect weapon for vampire hunting.

“He said other things. That the townspeople hated me because they were afraid of me. That they knew I was stronger and faster than them, and that I could see and hear and smell things they could not. I became his apprentice. His name was Heke, and he taught me everything he knew about finding vampires where they hid, flushing them out. Killing them.

“When it came time for him to leave, I went with him. We traveled from village to village, smoking out bloodsuckers, making our coin that way. It was good pay. Yes, sometimes he ‘identified’ a human as one of _them_ , a young man or woman who didn’t quite toe the line. Sometimes a face that just rubbed me the wrong way, like those villagers who had always hated me for something I had no say in. But we never _forced_ the villagers to hand them over to us. They did _that_ on their own.”

He shook his head ruefully. “Trussed up their own like animals to be slaughtered. No questions asked. Heke and I simply took them off their hands. Dealt with them properly. And maybe had a bit of fun, of course. I liked them _before_ we cut out their hearts; Heke liked them after.” He winked, as if it were some offhand joke. “Really, if the Starks were so intent on their righteousness—as if they didn’t murder more humans than the two of us could ever hope to—they should have punished the villagers.”

“But they punished Heke instead,” Theon finally managed to get out, “when they finally caught him. How did they do it? I hope…it was painful.”

With another kick, Ramsay rolled him over onto his back. Nothing cracked this time, but whatever _had_ cracked last time cried out in protest. Before Theon could complain too much, Ramsay was on top of him, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head against the dusty floorboards. His eyes glinted with an unmistakable manic gleam.

“They carved the word ‘Liar’ into his forehead,” he giggled, dragging the nail of his thumb across Theon’s forehead. “Then ‘compelled’ him to walk back to the nearest village and confess his crimes to the villagers. I saw what the Starks had carved into him when I saw his body swinging from the gallows.” His mouth split into a rictus grin. “Maybe I should carve something into _your_ forehead, see how they like it. ‘Whore’ maybe.”

“I’m not—”

“I can smell Robb Stark’s stink all over you. I can _smell_ arousal, you remember?” He wrenched Theon’s head to the side and ran his fingers, surprisingly gently, over the very spot Robb had bitten him on the neck. “You gave into them pretty quickly, didn’t you? I don’t think they had to compel you at all. In fact, I think you were the one who begged them to do it.”

Theon twitched under his grasp.

“Your heart’s beating pretty quickly. I think I might have struck a nerve.” Ramsay slipped his hand around Theon’s neck, his palm pressing against his throat. Not hard, just the faintest pressure causing him to work harder to fill his lungs. Which hurt with every breath. “You followed me up to their castle so easily, like a lost little puppy. I think you were _looking_ for someone to lead you around.”

Theon shook his head as best he could manage.

“I know your type,” Ramsay went on, ignoring him. “Lost and confused without someone around telling you what to do. Just _craving_ a heavy hand to put you in your place. The heavier the better.” He tightened his hold on Theon’s throat just a pinch. Theon gagged. “I could be that heavy hand.”

Theon recoiled from him, though there was nowhere to recoil to. The back of his head hit the musty floorboards, and the hand around his throat continued to squeeze.

“Ever since Heke was murdered, I’ve been looking for someone to join me in my mission to kill every vampire I can. An apprentice of my own, I guess you could say.” The hand abruptly relaxed, and Theon drew in a deep breath. Air came rushing in, along with the smell of Ramsay’s sickly-sweet breath. “What do you say? I could make it _hurt_ better than they ever could.”

Theon forced his throat to work. Gathered a wad of saliva in the back of his mouth and spat.

Ramsay hardly even responded, didn’t even lift his hand to wipe the spittle from his cheek. His eyes just bored into Theon with their intensity. “That’s alright,” he said, finally standing. “I can’t compel you, not like _they_ can.” He cracked his knuckles. “But that makes it more satisfying when they eventually give in.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I was probably high on sleep deprivation when I wrote this chapter, which will probably show more towards the end.
> 
> Mind the tags. Ramsay's at his creepiest here.

Ramsay sat in one of the chairs, boots propped up on the table, sharpening a wooden stake. Theon could not see much more than his back and a slight profile of his face under his hat, tied as he was to the bed. Spread eagle—arms stretched out to either headboard post, feet stretched out to the footboard. It not only put a terrible strain on his ribs, it also made him feel like an offering at the sacrificial altar all over again, only prone instead of upright this time.

Luckily, Ramsay had not done much more to him, other than talk his ear off about the “good old days” with Heke, recounting the story of how they had killed his vampire father together. “Should have seen the look on his face when I stabbed my stake right through his heart,” he said with a genuinely fond grin.

He only ever took his eyes off the door to check the window or the fireplace. But when the sun rose with no sign of any rescue, he let out an annoyed sigh.

“I _know_ they found my message for them by now, but we’ll have to wait another night for them to get here.”

“Maybe they won’t come.” Theon desperately hoped that wasn’t the case, but another part of him didn’t want to see them killed by this madman just like Patrek had been. “Maybe they know it’s a trap.”

Ramsay whirled on him with an exasperated sigh. “ _Of course_ they know it’s a trap. They’ve been scoping out the area practically since we set foot here.” He peered out the window, drawing back the ratty old curtain with a grimace. “I can feel _that one_ watching us.”

“ _That_ one?”

Ramsay’s scanned the outside landscape one last time before he allowed the curtain to fall back into place. “The one who controls the beasts. Unnatural…even by _their_ standards. But even he can’t do anything in the daylight. Nothing but watch.” He turned back to Theon. “Let him watch.”

Watch what?

Ramsay stalked towards the bed, and Theon felt the pit of his stomach give out. He strained against the ropes, but of course that was just as useless as it had been that night at the altar. And this time Ramsay was in front of him, not behind. Theon remembered the way his hands had lingered on his legs and backside, like tentacles.

The mattress was made of straw and didn’t dip as Ramsay climbed onto it, just rustled. He settled over Theon’s stomach; the pressure reminded him of other stories he’d heard, of demons who sat on people’s chests as they slept and sucked the soul from their breaths. “You let Robb Stark feed from you,” Ramsay stated, staring down at Theon through heavily lidded eyes. “Did you let him fuck you too?”

The weight of his body was crushing Theon’s bruised, possibly broken, ribs. His breath left him in a harsh wheeze.

“I have a nose for these sorts of things.” Ramsay took in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, as if to prove his point. “But it’s hard to tell with you. Oh, you _want_ him to fuck you, for sure. But _have_ you? That’s the question. Have you fucked _any_ of them?”

Theon gritted his teeth through the pain.

“What? Couldn’t Robb get his dead cock up for you? Or maybe _you’re_ the one who couldn’t get it up? No, I smelled you that night in the cave. If anything, you’d probably spend before you could get it into one of their dead holes.” He grinned at his own little joke. “Then maybe there’s something wrong with you. Something so freakish it even makes living corpses sick at the thought of fucking it.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Now I’m curious to see what it might be.”

He twirled his knife between his fingers, seemingly just for show, and then brought it down in a quick slashing motion.

Theon flinched.

There was no pain. Just the quiet rip of clothing. The front of his shirt had been torn down the middle. Ramsay slipped his hand under the fabric and pulled the torn pieces away, exposing Theon’s chest. Goose flesh immediately began to rise on his skin, even as Ramsay’s warm hand explored.

“What’s this?”

There was a sudden jerk around Theon’s neck, and he realized Ramsay had yanked on the locket’s lanyard. The thin leather snapped easily, and Ramsay brought the locket closer to inspect.

“Don’t touch that!” Theon growled.

“Someone give it to you?” Ramsay fluttered his eyelashes in imitation of a coy lady. “A sweetheart, maybe?”

“It’s my mother’s,” Theon said, meeting Ramsay’s eyes without blinking. Surely with his story last night he could appreciate the need for a mother’s love in a cold, uncaring world.

Ramsay’s face remained impassive, though. He unclasped the lock and studied the pearl inside for a moment. “Might fetch a bit of money,” he said, then tossed it to the floor. Theon heard it clink dully on the floorboards, though he couldn’t turn his head enough to see where it had landed.

A bit of money? Then Ramsay didn’t know what it was. Which might mean…

“Why did you choose me?” he blurted out as Ramsay began to slice away the sleeves of his shirt next. “To lure the Starks out, I mean.”

“What’s to choose?” Ramsay snorted but didn’t pause at all, making quick work of the rest of Theon’s shirt. “You were already looking for them.”

“Is that it? You didn’t think…there was something about me, specifically, that might…appeal to them?”

Ramsay did pause at that, to give Theon an incredulous look. “Don’t flatter yourself. They’re not picky about their food, so long as it’s warm and living. Come to think of it, same with fucking too.” He let out a bark of laughter. “You didn’t think you were _special_ or some shit like that, did you?” With an overly violent motion, he ripped the shredded shirt from Theon’s chest. Ran his hand across his right shoulder and up his arm, tracing the faded line where he’d cut Theon at the altar. “You scarred nicely here. I like that about humans. They never…quite…heal perfectly. Carry their memories on their skin.”

Theon forced himself not to jerk back from the touch. Ramsay thought he was human, possibly didn’t even suspect he had something other than human blood in him. Maybe he could use that to advantage.

“I really was helping you, you know,” Ramsay continued, and raised his knife again. “Even if you’d managed to wander all the way up to the castle on your own, you’d never have gotten close to the Starks.” He slipped the blade under the button of Theon’s breeches. “It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little _gratitude_ , now, would it?”

He wrenched the knife and popped the button off.

Theon instinctively kicked out, but of course his legs were bound to the footboard. “What? Leaving me naked and bleeding in the snow earlier wasn’t enough? You intend to strip me entirely of my dignity?” He forced out an arrogant chuckle, though he felt a rising panic in his stomach.

Surely…

Ramsay slid the edge of his knife under the waistband of Theon’s trousers. “When the Starks come for you, I want to make sure they can smell me all over you, _in_ you. We’ll see if you’re so appetizing to them then.” He paused to grin. “We’ll see if _they’re_ so appetizing to you either, once you’ve had a taste of _my_ cock.”

The panic in Theon’s gut turned to hot needles. The edge of the knife was cold where it pressed against his flesh as Ramsay began to cut, the same quick, practiced motions he’d used to slice through Theon’s shirt.

“No,” he protested, because it was the only thing he could think. “No, you can’t, you…” His muscles strained against the ropes until they cut into him, but still they held fast. Maybe he could break free if he had the strength of one of _them_ , but he didn’t. Just his pathetic human strength. With a drop of mer blood.

Mer blood. Sirens. Sirens. Sirens killed men all the time. How? How? Crashing their boats onto the rocks. Crashing…luring. Luring…with…

Theon drew a deep breath that stretched his bruised ribs and belted out the first line of the first song he could think of.

The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

And her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

And its kiss was a terrible thing.

  
  


He’d always had a decent singing voice, if he did say so himself, but the key to any sea shanty was to do it _loud_. The old seaman’s song rang off the rafters of the tiny cabin, filling the space.

Ramsay stopped dead and stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Perhaps he had. But he’d gotten Ramsay to stop, even for just a moment, and so he continued.

Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done.

The Dornishman's taken my life.

But what does it matter? For all men must die,

And I've tasted the Dornishman's wife.

Ramsay just continued to stare at him, abandoning his knife and sinking back on his haunches. Just sat and watched, mouth slightly slack. Perhaps it was working. Perhaps Theon’s voice had entranced him. But as he launched into the second verse, Ramsay threw his head back and laughed.

Laughed so boisterously it drowned out Theon’s singing. Laughed for a long, long time, until Theon wondered if damphirs also didn’t need to breathe.

He ended it by drawing in a deep, rasping breath and slumped forward bonelessly. The occasional chuckle still racked his frame. “I like you,” he said after another long bout of silence. “If you continue to amuse me, I’ll keep you around for a long time.” He then lifted his head and shook out his shoulders, as if limbering up after a break, and reached for the knife again. “Now stop squirming or else—”

Theon never got to hear _or else_ what, because that was the moment the room exploded.

Or seemed to, at any rate. The sound of crashing glass filled the air, and debris—bits of broken wood and glass—rained down. Theon closed his eyes against it, his body working on instinct even if his mind had no idea what was happening. He heard snarling, like an angry beast, and then another angry beast’s answering snarl. There was a pained howl, and then Ramsay’s weight was off of him, so abruptly he didn’t immediately realize he could breathe again.

Cautiously, he cracked one eye open. Ramsay had been thrown clear across the room and lay slumped against the far wall—the wooden planks having cracked and caved in under the force of it. A blow like that would have killed a human, or least gravely injured him. But not Ramsay, who looked dazed as he tried to get back to his feet, teeth bared at Theon’s savior.

Theon’s savior, who moved from the broken window to stand in front of the bed, placing himself between Theon and Ramsay, shoulders hunched, ready to fight. Jon.


	35. Chapter 35

“Are you hurt?” Jon asked, never taking his eyes off of Ramsay.

“I…I don’t think so,” Theon managed to stammer out. He couldn’t even tell. He was covered in broken glass and bits of wood, and he was shirtless and freezing, and it was possible this was all a figment of his imagination. He didn’t think so, though. Robb would be saving him in that case, not a man who hated him for stealing Robb away from him. “Could you…could you maybe…?” He tugged on his bindings.

Jon tore the ropes tying his right wrist to the headboard, as easily as if it were a thread. Feeling came rushing back to Theon’s arm, but he didn’t have time to contemplate the pins-and-needles tingling. He reached over and began to undo the binding to his left wrist. Ramsay had tied the knot tight, but somehow his shaking fingers managed to loosen it.

Ramsay had gotten back to his feet, though he was still a bit dazed, judging by the way he leaned against the wall for support. He grinned, but there was no disguising the malice in his eyes. “The other damphir. I admit, I wasn’t watching for you. I didn’t expect you to show.”

“You killed a man loyal to my family and kidnapped a guest under our protection.” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “You should know by now that a slight against any in our care is a slight against us all.”

“We shouldn’t fight,” Ramsay said in a sickly-sweet tone. His hand twitched. “We understand better than any human could how unnatural _they_ are, being so unnatural ourselves. We’re kindred abominations, you and I.”

“We’re not kindred anything,” Jon spat.

“You’re definitely a Stark.” Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “The self-righteousness is a _dead_ giveaway.” His mouth quirked at his own little pun. “You realize your family has killed more innocents than Heke and I combined could ever hope to.”

Jon gestured to Theon’s bound form on the bed. “If you don’t understand the difference between us, then there’s not much conversation to be had.”

“I guess not. Pity.” Ramsay chuckled dryly. “I wasn’t expecting you, but luckily for me, a damphir is even easier to kill than a vampire.” In a flash, his hand reached for his folds of his coat. “Comes with being mortal, after all.”

Before Theon could even warn Jon to watch out, Jon was already across the room, knocking the pistol from Ramsay’s hand before he’d managed to fully draw it from the pocket of his coat. The gun clattered to the floor, but confusingly, a second later, the sound of gunfire erupted nonetheless. Jon staggered back, clutching his stomach.

Smoke rose from the barrel of Ramsay’s gun. A second one, also hidden in his coat. Theon recognized the pearl handle—it was _his_ gun. Ramsay must have taken it at the inn.

And now the gun that had put a bullet in Ramsay’s leg had also put a bullet in Jon’s gut. Theon watched in horror, his hands free but his legs still bound to the footboard.

Jon sank to his knees. The startlingly gentle motion, coupled with the shocked, open-mouthed expression on his face, almost gave the impression that he was kneeling prayer. Blood ran like water through the fingers clasped over his stomach. He hardly even reacted when Ramsay cocked the gun and set the barrel against his head, right above his eyes.

“I’m going to enjoy stringing up your body for the rest of them to find.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flew up to meet Ramsay’s, defiantly. He said nothing.

“Wonder if they’ll recognize you with your face.” Ramsay began to pull the trigger.

“Wait!” Theon cried.

It was déjà vu, watching helplessly as Ramsay murdered someone in front of him. This time, though, Ramsay’s finger stayed. The gun remained pressed to Jon’s forehead, but Ramsay looked up, locked eyes with Theon from across the room.

“Don’t kill him.” Theon gnawed on his lip. A plan was forming. _Part_ of a plan. And not a good one. But he didn’t have much time to deliberate. Not with Ramsay’s restless finger on the trigger. “Fuck me instead.”

Ramsay’s face took on the same baffled look he’d worn when Theon had started singing. Even Jon, despite his pain, mirrored Ramsay’s expression.

Theon pressed ahead anyway. “What are you waiting for? Fuck me!” he repeated. No, _demanded_ , loud and with intent, as if he were singing a shanty and waiting for an answering refrain.

To his surprise, the gun fell out of Ramsay’s hand. The man took a lurching step forward.

Theon’s throat spasmed. Ramsay…was Ramsay actually answering his refrain? “Fuck me,” he said again, putting as much _intent_ into it as he could. The words seemed to rise out from somewhere deep inside him. He could almost see them, like his breath on a cold day, traveling across the room to ghost against Ramsay’s ears. “You want to, don’t you?”

“I want to,” Ramsay agreed. His voice was hollow. His eyes as wide as a fish’s. He took another step forward, drawn by some will that wasn’t his own.

_Was_ it Theon’s will? Theon had no idea how he was doing it, _if_ he was doing it. But there was tension in the air, like the taut string of a fisherman’s rod. One wrong move could snap the line. He felt it instinctively. Whatever he was doing required concentration…a steady hand. Or voice, as it were.

“You want me,” Theon continued, jerking the line delicately to draw Ramsay in. His words vibrated across an invisible thread, connecting the two of them together. “I’m more interesting than Jon. I’m more interesting than _anything_.”

“Yes.” Ramsay took several steps now, raising his arms, reaching out. There was no malice in the action, just a pathetic sort of need, like an opium addict. His eyes were even glazed like those of the men Theon had seen in the dens his uncle Euron frequented. “I want…”

“You need,” Theon corrected.

“Need. I need you. I need…” He had no power, neither to hurt nor to resist. But he was drawing nearer, and Theon’s heart beat with panic. What would he do once Ramsay reached him? He needed to keep the moment going, maintain control. But there weren’t any rocks for Ramsay to crash himself upon, no fathomless depths he could plunge himself into. Theon wondered if anyone had ever _caught_ a siren before, and what happened _then_.

“I need…”

A gunshot rang out.

Theon jumped, and Ramsay collapsed face-first onto the floor.

Jon, still clutching his stomach in one hand, Theon’s gun in his other, staggered up to his feet. Ramsay stirred and groaned, but Jon had no intention of letting him get up. He cocked the pistol, pointed it at Ramsay’s head, and pulled the trigger.

There was a small, hollow click to indicate an empty chamber.

With a growl, Jon threw the weapon to the ground and looked around. Theon followed his sightline and caught it a second later: the other gun, the first one. It was still lying where Jon had knocked out of Ramsay’s grip, halfway across the room. Ramsay stirred with a groan and started to push himself up onto his hands and knees. Jon made for the second gun, moving not with the grace Theon had come to expect from him, but as sluggishly as any human.

Theon refused to watch helplessly. His hands were free, and he reached for the bindings on his ankles. His fingers felt fat and frozen, and he couldn’t get them to undo the knots fast enough. He glanced around the bed in a panic, ran his hands through the threadbare sheets. It was here. It had been in Ramsay’s hand when Jon had broken through the window. It was…

His hand brushed against the cold metal of the knife that had slit Patrek’s throat.

Ramsay pushed himself up at the same time Jon fell back to his knees, both of them trailing puddles of blood with every movement. It looked like the bullet had taken Ramsay in the shoulder, because that’s what he clutched as he turned and started after Jon, still struggling to reach the gun. His hand went into the folds of his coat again, and Theon’s heart seized. He had something, some other weapon…

“Look out!”

But Jon was either unaware that Ramsay was coming up behind him or too intent on his task to care. Either way, Theon’s warning did no good, and just as Jon was within arm’s reach of the gun’s handle, Ramsay was on him. He slammed Jon onto the floor on his back, and a pained scream tore from Jon’s throat.

Ramsay straddled him as the pool of their mingled blood grew beneath them. He pulled his weapon free from his coat. “Not meant for a damphir,” he said, brandishing the wooden stake, “but I reckon it will do the job all the same.”

With one last brutal pull of the knife, the final thread of Theon’s bindings snapped, and he sprang up. He wasn’t light on his feet, not the way a vampire or damphir was, but at this point, neither were Jon or Ramsay.

Bits of broken glass and splintered wood cut into his bare feet. He didn’t feel them. There was only Ramsay, who had murdered the closest thing to a true brother he’d ever had, who had threatened to murder Robb and his entire family, and who even now was attempting to murder a member of that family.

His footsteps must have been like blasts of dynamite to a damphir’s ears. Ramsay heard him coming and turned with a hiss, but not fast enough—either because of his wounds or from the sheer unexpectedness of it, Theon would never know. Nor did he pause to consider. He plunged the knife deep into Ramsay’s eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter a million times. It's definitely not the climax I was expecting when I first started writing it, but it just kind of happened that way. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	36. Chapter 36

With some effort, Theon rolled Ramsay’s dead body off of Jon. The corpse lay looking up at him with its one eye, quickly glazing over in death. There was no need to check for a pulse. Theon turned his attention to Jon. “Are you going to be alright?” Theon asked.

Jon didn’t answer right away, which was worrying. “I’ll live,” he wheezed at last. Blood gushed from his stomach wound, thick and so dark it was almost black. It didn’t _look_ like he would live. Theon’s face must have shown this doubt, because Jon hurried to add, breathlessly, “Just…need time to heal. Few hours…should do.”

“You could bleed to death in a few hours,” Theon noted.

Theon stumbled back to the bed—his legs and feet were thoroughly numb, which was good because he was leaving his own bloody footprints behind him—and grabbed the tattered remains of his shirt. More stumbling back to Jon. He hiked up Jon’s shirt, revealing the bullet hole right above his navel, bunched up the rags, and pressed them to the wound. A pained, high-pitched whine escaped through Jon’s teeth.

“Hold that,” Theon instructed, and guided Jon’s hands to his stomach, the way Sansa had shown him to do to his own bleeding wounds when Robb had fed from him.

Jon nodded. His color had turned alarmingly pale, and his eyes rolled back slightly in his head. “Robb…and the others…aren’t far,” he panted. “Couldn’t keep going…in the daylight.”

“Stop talking. I…I’m going to get some snow.” Cold things helped people heal, right? Like cold compresses for a fever? He thought he remembered a physician telling him that ice constricted blood flow, so if they packed the wound with snow, perhaps it would stop the bleeding long enough for Jon to heal.

“Get dressed…before you go out,” Jon mumbled, almost like sleep-talking. His eyes were closed now, and his breath had evened out. Evened out, but he _was_ still breathing, at least. “If you…caught your death to cold…Robb would…never forgive…”

Robb. Theon swallowed.

“Right,” he said, and stood, looking for something to dress _into_. If his shirt wasn’t already in tatters, it was now thoroughly soaked through with Jon’s blood. Ramsay had a shirt he wasn’t using anymore though, and a jacket. Theon began tugging both off the corpse, which was still heavy and staring at him with its one fish eye; the other one was a complete wreck. It was cumbersome to move at all, and he had to get down on his knees to roll it again.

As he struggled to get the arms out of the sleeve, he caught something out of the corner of his eye, like a brief flare from a lighthouse’s beacon. When he looked, he was startled to find the pearl. It had rolled under the bed, where it lay practically invisible among the dust and shadows. How had he even noticed it?

 _Because it’s got a damn mind of its own_ , he thought and crawled towards it. He realized, as he reached for it, that his hands were covered in blood. Not _his_ blood—probably a mix of Jon’s and Ramsay’s—but the other times the pearl had shown him visions, there had been blood as well. He wiped his hands as best he could on the sheets and then, using his fingers, gathered up some of his own blood from the bottom of his feet. Then he snatched up the pearl.

He didn’t feel anything. It didn’t show him anything.

Water. It needed water too.

Ignoring Jon’s order to get dressed—it looked like Jon had passed out in any case—Theon staggered to the cabin’s door and pushed his way through. He hadn’t seen it from the outside when he’d first arrived with the bag over his head, but it certainly wasn’t an improvement from the inside. The roof was slanted and caving inwards. The chimney looked to have crumbled away years ago. The wooden steps were warped—no wonder he’d tripped over them. He was careful now as he stepped down them, bare feet landing in the snow.

He knelt and scooped a handful of snow into his palms.

He was prepared for it this time, the sudden loss of his senses. No longer Theon, but the very snow on the ground. Stretching out as far as the ground went. He’d been rain before. He’d be rain again. But for now he was snow. Frozen. Unmoving. Quiet. Everywhere.

There was a cave. There were lots of cave around here. He knew them all, from the rivers flowing underground to the water dripping from stalactites. But this one had guests. Heat from two living bodies—a young man with broad shoulders and dark hair, and one Theon recognized as Jojen, both standing guard at the cave’s entrance. The other guests lay farther back, far out of the sun’s reach. Three of them, two with red hair and one with dark—Robb, Sansa, and Arya, the lingering part of Theon’s human mind supplied.

The snow had witnessed their frenzied run from the castle, inhuman feet carrying them faster than any human or beast could hope to travel, even Sansa in her fine lady’s dress. It had watched them, their human servants struggling to even keep them in sight. Only Jon’s breath could be seen on the chill. They moved like shadows without pausing, without slowing, until the sky began to leech its darkness. Arya ushered them to the cave while Jon kept going—the snow could watch both at the same time, and so Theon saw both as well.

He was a bead of water now, running down the rock of the cave wall, pooling on the ground against cold, dead flesh.

There was a spark. A flash.

He had a body again, solidity. He knew this because there was something very solid against him, holding him tight. And a voice whispering, “Theon, Theon, I’m coming, I’ll be there soon, hold on, hold on, please be alright, please…”

Theon lifted his head. “Robb.” He couldn’t see anything in the dark, but he could feel, and he reached his hands up for Robb’s face. “It’s me. I’m here.” He traced Robb’s lips with his fingers. “I’m safe.”

“Safe,” Robb repeated.

“Jon got here in time. Ramsay’s dead but…Jon got hurt.”

Robb’s body tensed.

“I think he’s going to be alright,” Theon hurried to add. “He _tells_ me he’s going to be alright, but maybe you could send Jojen or the other guy...”

"Gendry," Robb supplied. “I should have been there. I should _be_ there.”

Theon didn’t know what to say to that. He wished Robb _was_ here.

“This damn curse,” Robb said. “This is what it means to be with us. With me. I wish I could run to you whenever you need me, but the truth is I cannot.” His hand was smooth against Theon’s jaw. “And there _will_ be other times when you’ll need me, and I’ll be unable to come. There will be things I can’t do for you, things I can’t give you.” Smooth and cold, like stone worn under thousands of years of running water. “Things you deserve.”

Theon let out a deep sigh. “Enough with the poetry.”

He felt Robb flinch as he reached up to brush a hand through his hair. He still couldn’t see, but he could picture its shade of redness.

“I’m not perfect either.” He let out a bark of laughter. “Far from it. You’re a dead man who kills humans. It turns out I’m a fish man who also kills humans. And I think…I might actually be pretty good at it. The killing humans thing. I mean, you don’t have to _like_ something to be good at it, right?” He smiled, unsure whether Robb could see him or not. “And even besides that, I’m selfish, I’m a coward, I’ve never thought about another person besides myself in my life…”

“You know none of that is true, Theon.”

He shrugged. “True _enough_. What I’m trying to say is…I won’t hold it against you if you don’t hold it against me.”

Robb’s chest rumbled and a hearty laugh escaped his mouth. Theon pressed his cheek against the chest and felt the rumble. It was almost like a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to believe, but there's only one chapter and an epilogue left. Gonna try my best to wrap everything up.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW material in this chapter.

“If you need me to stop, tell me.” Robb climbed on top of him, heavy, and placed a hand against his jaw. The beds of his nails were grey again, his hands as pale and cold as marble. “It won’t be like last time.”

Theon grinned up at him. “I _liked_ last time.”

“I nearly killed you last time.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“I’m serious,” Robb said harshly. “I will never let myself lose control like that again.”

He couldn’t possibly promise something like that, but Theon didn’t point it out. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Robb’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Robb’s lips were dry, cool. Every inch of their bare skin pressed together; Theon wondered if Robb could feel the heat of his living flesh.

This wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured it. He’d pictured a long, slow undressing, the kind he’d on occasion indulged a lady in. He’d never seen the appeal of it then, not before he’d imagined Robb taking off each one of his fine garments—perhaps delicately, perhaps tearing them, he alternated in his mind which would be better. But in the end it was neither. His fine clothes were in traveling chests waiting in the village to be picked up…along with a coffin containing Patrek’s body. Apparently the villagers had touched neither by the time Sansa had arrived to retrieve them, made arrangements to have them sent up to the castle.

Theon didn’t know if he’d ever be able to wear his clothes without thinking of Patrek again. The thought filled him with sadness. He didn’t want it here, in his bed with him and Robb. He chased it away by turning his head and offering up his neck. “Please.”

Robb seemed to sense the desperation in his voice, the impatience. He leaned in. “Please tell me if I’m being too rough. I don’t want…” He ran his hand lightly over Theon’s bare chest, barely ghosting over the mass of bruising on his ribs, only just now starting to turn from black to purple.

“Nothing _he_ did could ever remind me of you,” Theon said.

Repeated, really. They had talked about this, exhaustively, ever since Jon had relayed the details of what had happened in Ramsay’s cabin. Ramsay was lucky to already have been dead by the time the others had arrived, as Robb’s… _anger_ had been truly something to behold.

“I’m not afraid when I’m around you,” Theon insisted, “despite your best efforts.” He tangled one hand in Robb’s hair. “Now, will I be forced to use my siren powers to get you to _do_ something?”

In truth, he wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to. It was a relief to know he hadn’t been seducing Robb before, unwittingly or not, as Sansa had suspected. It had taken too much _effort_ and _intent_ to work his power on Ramsay. No, Robb had been drawn to him from the start, just as he had been drawn to Robb, no entrancement at all. Well, perhaps there _was_ an outside force at play, but if so, it was acting on _both_ of them.

“No, there will be no need for that.” Robb ran his lips along the skin of Theon’s neck. “I’m already under your spell.”

“Good.” Theon smiled. “You promised to give me _all_ of you.”

He groaned as he felt the bite. It ran electric down the tendons of his neck, to his clavicle, down into his stomach, where it settled in his groin, pricking like needles. He was responding. Then Robb was drawing the blood from him, and the current changed course, up from the depths up him to the delicious pain in his neck. He was helpless in its thrall, clutching on to Robb, feeling him grow warm and alive under his very hands.

He tried to hold on, even as Robb pulled back. His toes curled to have that sensation back, but Robb just ran his tongue along the bite mark, along with its phantom pleasure-pains. Closing the wound, Theon realized, the way he had in the crypts. It felt like forever ago. There would be no trace left.

“Will you let me keep the marks?” Theon asked. “When I become your blood doll?”

“If,” Robb corrected. “You’ll need time to consider it.”

_I’ll need time to consider it too_ , his tone said, so Theon nodded. “I just like the idea of wearing it all the time.”

Robb grinned at that, and for a moment Theon saw a flesh of the uncertain boy he must have been, the one who had rushed into a stranger’s arms in a moment of despair. A lonely boy with too much burden hanging over his head. Theon placed a hand against Robb’s chest, felt his heart beating. Rapidly. It caught him by surprise.

“Your blood’s already working,” Robb said.

“Is it?” Theon’s gaze traveled down Robb’s body, watching it become supple and flushed before his very eyes. His cock, beginning to come alive as well.

“How would you prefer it?” Robb asked, pink tingeing his cheeks. “I will be warm…inside.”

“Perhaps later,” Theon said. He was terribly hard, and the thought of Robb’s warm, living flesh around him was so powerful it made his back teeth ache. But what he really wanted was to hit that dull ache deep inside of him. Needed it, almost, more than he’d needed anything. “But right now—” he tapped his fingers against Robb’s chest “—I’m already inside you. It’s only fair that you return the favor.”

“It might hurt,” Robb said.

“That’s fine,” Theon said, with a cheeky wink. “Just not too much, alright?”

This time, all of Robb was blazing hot as he used his fingers and tongue to prod at Theon’s opening. The only chill was the perfumed oil he poured from an oddly shaped vial, and that was for merely a moment before his fingers worked their blazing heat into it as well.

He worked with such care and patience that Theon had to bite on his hand to keep his frustration from bubbling up. But when Robb finally set aside the vial and lifted Theon’s knees, positioned himself between his legs, and pushed in, it was like being bitten all over again. The pleasure-pain—a different pain, a pulling, stretching, _burning_ —all at once too much and not enough. Overwhelming.

He didn’t realize he was still biting down on his hand until Robb pried it gently from his mouth. He’d left his own human teeth marks on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, ugly and inelegant next to a vampire’s mark.

“Are you alright?” Robb asked. “Does it hurt too much?”

“Keep going,” he gasped.

So Robb did. He sank deeper, reaching beyond what his tongue and fingers had touched. His length dragged against the ache, and the world became nothing else. To Theon, it felt like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to reach so deeply inside of him and find that spot.

It was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on the epilogue, but I hope to have it up by tomorrow. If not, then Tuesday for sure.


	38. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: This epilogue takes place before Jon leaves to "find himself." So even though there's no actual closure there, I hope I left enough of a suggestion about how he ended up "finding himself." ;)

_Dear Asha,_

_I hope this letter finds you and Mother well. I had a peculiar dream the other night. I dreamt I was standing with Mother on a beach and she began wading into the water. I called back to her, but she kept going. I saw it all very vividly, the way her skirts became waterlogged, the way the sand shifted as I ran to drag her back. But I could not reach her._

_When she was waist-high in the water, she turned back to me and smiled. In my dream she looked to be in better health than I have ever remembered her. In your last letter you mentioned that she had improved somewhat, though not drastically, but in my dream there was color in her cheeks and her hair was fine and glossy as it whipped in the sea breeze. She turned to me and said, “I will be watching you, love,” and then she dove under the water and I lost sight of her._

_Sometimes I have trouble knowing what is a dream and what is more than a dream, but I woke with the distinct impression this was more than a dream. I hope I’m not wrong in my guy feeling that wherever she is, with you or not, she is well. The water in my dreams was quite warm._

_As to me…it’s coming up on one year since I last laid eyes on the two of you. A lot has happened, some of which I’ve shared with you and some, I must confess, I have not. I’m thinking of making a rather drastic change at this juncture of my life. I’ll put it in the words that will best not give Father a heart attack, should news of it get back to him: I’m proposing marriage. Don’t worry; I know you hate weddings, and you’ll not be expected to attend this one. But I think I have found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. It’s still a bit early, I know, but it feels right to me._

Theon paused, pen poised so it wouldn’t drip ink on the paper as he thought. There was no telling how much Asha would or wouldn’t read between the lines, but he had a feeling she would understand what he meant.

There was so much more he could say, and part of him wanted to say it. _I’m in love, Asha. For the first time in my life I know what real love is like. And…I think I’m in love with an entire family, and most of them aren’t even alive. And that person I want to spend the rest of my life with…he’s a man, the most patient, understanding, beautiful man I’ve ever met._

He didn’t write any of that, though. The letter would pass through Pyke, where his father or, God forbid, one of his uncles, would probably read it before sending it on to the Continent. It was fear that stayed his pen, but not the same fear that had governed him his entire life. Not fear for himself, what his father or uncles would think of him, what they would do to him. They could disown him, disinherit him, but what they might do to the Starks… _that_ put true fear in his gut.

“Theon!” Jeyne’s voice came muffled from the other side of the door. “They’re here.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he called back.

Turning to his desk, he jotted off a quick ending.

_I am well._

_Keep well yourself,_

_Love,_

_Theon_

Then he set his pen in its holder and stood. Once the ink was dried, he’d send it with whoever was headed to the village next. But for now he had a more pressing issue.

He opened the door to find Jeyne standing there, looking prim and proper as ever. “They’re waiting in the receiving room,” she informed, with just a hint of reproach in her voice.

“Then we shouldn’t keep them.”

Together, they made their way down to the receiving room, where they could hear the boom of voices even from down the hall. Which was definitely at odds with the normal noise level one could expect from the Starks. Even during arguments and when tempers flared, voices were never really raised. Not from Robb, not from Sansa, not from Arya, and certainly not from Bran.

Theon felt a swell of apprehension as they drew near. What a striking coincidence he had just been writing to Asha bout his “marriage proposal,” and here he was, meeting his “fiance’s” father for the first time. Or the closest thing Robb had to a father. If Benjen Stark didn’t approve of him, then what? He needed to make a good impression.

“You’re fine,” Jeyne said, giving him that sly little smile she sometimes let sneak onto her face. “You are a refined gentleman compared to Benjen, and especially Rickon. And you know perfectly well I think you’re no sort of gentleman at all.”

“Praised with faint damnation,” Theon agreed. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door to announce their arrival.

The doors flung inwards, revealing a man who _looked_ like he spent the better part of his time wandering the frozen North. He had unkempt, wildly red hair, and an equally unkempt, wildly red beard. But underneath all that—all the hair and the furs and animal hides—there was no mistaking that he was…actually quite a beautiful man. Older, perhaps, but God, Theon wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

And there, the first thought upon seeing Robb’s father figure. Was he good in bed? Did he have hair everywhere and was it the same red?

“Rickon,” Jeyne said with a curtsy, then gestured to Theon. “This is Theon Greyjoy.”

Rickon? Not Uncle Benjen, then, but Robb’s baby brother. Must have been something about the phrase “baby brother,” but he certainly hadn’t been expecting a full-grown man, let aloneone who appeared to have been well beyond Robb and Sansa’s age when he’d been turned. He wasn’t sure if that made his first thoughts better or worse.

Rickon stepped up to Theon—he was easily two heads taller—and leaned in far closer than what was considered polite. And then he began…sniffing. Theon knew vampires had a heightened sense of smell, but usually they weren’t so…obvious about it.

After a few seconds, Rickon stood back to his full height and put his hands on his hips. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you,” Theon said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

Rickon grinned, flashing the telltale hint of fang in his smile. “Come in.” He waved for them to enter.

Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace, warding off the cold for the benefit of the living. And as they entered, Theon noticed that he and Jeyne weren’t the only living ones there. There was Jon, tucked away by the bookshelves, arms crossed and looking exceptionally melancholic. There were Meera and Jojen, standing to either side of Bran like posted sentries. And Gendry, towering over Arya as she sharpened her knife in the far corner. But there was also another woman he did not recognize, with brown hair as wild and unkempt as Rickon’s, dressed head to toe in furs. Her eyes flashed golden as they ran over Theon and Jeyne, suspiciously. Living, but not human.

She didn’t say anything, just bared her teeth at them, revealing an entire now of sharp, beast-like teeth.

“Osha.” Rickon placed a hand on her head, his voice chastising. “None of that now.” He gave Theon and Jeyne an apologetic smile that was, nonetheless, full of its own sharpened teeth. “Werewolves don’t usually trust humans.”

“ _Werewolves_?” Theon repeated.

“Oh, yes, the northern reaches are lousy with them.” This from a man leaning against the mantle, as if for Theon to more easily compare how much he resembled the portrait of Eddard Stark. He was at least somewhat groomed and dressed in real clothing, though there was no mistaking the untamed glint of his eyes. He pushed off and came forward—glided, more appropriately, in that ethereal way vampires seemed to possess—and took Jeyne’s hand. “Jeyne, lovely to see you again.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her hand. “Keeping well?”

“Lady Sansa keeps me very well, sir,” she replied.

“Good, good. I would reprimand her if she were not.” He allowed her to reclaim her hand and then turned to Theon. Took a second to rake his grey eyes over him. “And you must be this Theon I’ve heard so much about.”

Theon felt his cheeks flush at the thought this man had “heard so much about him,” but forced a cordial smile. “Only good things, I imagine.”

“Impressive things,” Benjen agreed. He leaned in, and though he didn’t make a _show_ of it the way Rickon had, Theon still caught the telltale flare of nostrils as the other man took in his scent. He _did_ take an uncomfortably long time, though. His brows knitted together, and Theon wondered what was wrong with him to draw such a reaction. “I’m…having a hard time determining who you belong to, lad. I smell Robb on you for certain, but I also smell Sansa…”

Sansa, perched on a chair across from the werewolf woman, didn’t react beyond a telling little smile.

“…and Jon…”

Over by the bookshelf, Jon seemed to have become very interested in the books, studying them as if he could read their contents through their covers.

“...and a hint of both Arya and Bran.”

“That unusual ‘round here?” the werewolf woman piped up. “In my pack, we do it all the time. A pretty little thing like that…” She nodded to Theon. “We’d pass ‘im around. Alpha gets first call, of course, but after that it’d be first come first serve.”

“Don’t speak about him like that!” Robb came practically charging out of the shadows near the fireplace and placed himself squarely between Theon and Osha, as if she had made to attack him. “I will thank you not to refer to my friend as if he were meat.”

“Oh, he likes it,” Osha said, giving Theon a wink, which he returned.

He imagined being tied to a bed and blindfolded, unsure who his next lover would be, trying to guess from familiar smells and touches alone until they entered him or he entered them. And perhaps not even then knowing then, except that it would be someone he had been with before and trusted. He _did_ like the idea of it.

“And he’s not the only one.” Osha craned her head, and Theon followed her sightline just fast enough to catch Jon looking away again. “Would you like that, sweet thing?” she teased Jon. “Would you like to be the pack’s shared toy?”

“That’s enough!” Robb bared his teeth.

She bared her teeth back and snarled.

Theon put his hand on Robb’s elbow. “It’s alright, Robb,” he said. Although Robb’s sudden surge of protectiveness was also extremely attractive. It was the closest to jealousy Theon had ever seen him.

Robb relaxed at his touch, and when he relaxed, so did Osha.

“I suppose that answers my question,” Benjen spoke up, “of who you belong to.”

Theon looked to him, saw an approving smile on his face.

“Of course I belong to Robb.” And in an instant, before he could lose his nerve, he reached for Robb’s hand. “I’m going to be his blood doll, after all.”

Robb’s head whipped around in surprise.

“Isn’t that right?” Theon prodded.

“Are you certain?” Robb asked. “I mean…truly certain?”

Theon nodded. His heart was beating up in the back of his throat, but calmed a bit when Robb squeezed his hand back, strong and cold. Like stone. Theon wanted his blood to be the thing to turn that stone to flesh again, to literally share his life with Robb. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay, this has been one of my most difficult fics. Probably one of my sloppiest too, but that comes from writing it in unplanned bursts (I shudder to think how many typos are still lingering). I feel like the story and tone are kinda all over the place, and the ending definitely isn't what I was planning from the start, but hopefully it came together into something semi-coherent.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. Feel free to leave any sort of feedback.
> 
> <3 VW


End file.
